Fox Holes
by A Shot Into The Void
Summary: Maxine O'Nan royally fucked up in Mobile and because of her failings, her boss shipped her to the only place in the whole Marshals Service with a vacancy that she could fill: The eastern district of Kentucky. From her first day on the job, she discovers that working in Lexington is crazy. And all that crazy closely involves a former Ranger and a man with a Stetson. (After S2 E1)
1. Traffic

"Damn it, Tim, it's your turn to write up the report, I'm telling you!" Raylan exclaimed, exasperated, as they entered the Marshal's office, each taking up one of the glass doors. Rachel glanced up from her phone call and smiled at them. Tim waved back before setting his face into a frown again.

"No, Raylan, it's not," Tim insisted, starting to feel his blood boil a little. "I'm not going to tell you this again. And, frankly, I'm insulted. I wrote a masterpiece of a report last time you and I partnered up, and now you attempt to disrespect me in such a way?" Sarcasm at it's finest.

"If you're such a _masterful_ writer, why don't you do it?" Raylan saw the hole in his logic, and he was going to milk it for all it was worth. "Surely, you can duplicate this 'masterpiece' of yours."

"My writing hand needs time to recuperate," Tim drawled, giving Raylan a look as he planted his butt in his swivel chair and leaned back. He stared up at Raylan and took a sip of coffee: "You can argue this all you want, Raylan, but the fact of the matter is that if you hand me the report and tell me to do it, it ain't gettin' done. And then you and I will _both_ be up the creek."

"God damn it," Raylan hissed, picking up the file and walking over to his own desk to get started. He was just getting pen to paper when the door to the bullpen, as they called the main office area, opened. It wasn't the sound of the door that made him glance up, but rather the unfamiliar redheaded girl standing there that peeked his curiosity. Raylan glanced up to get an inconspicuous look at her, and he wound up double-taking and looking up entirely.

Maybe she wasn't all that unfamiliar after all.

Tim, noticing Raylan's sudden head-movement out of the corner of his eye, glanced at the girl, then at Raylan. The girl herself was incredibly pretty, and she'd be downright stunning if she wasn't in what looked to be travelling clothes: a dark grey tank top; an unbuttoned, military green shirt; tight khaki pants; and some... were those boots on her feet genuine, military issue?

The look of recognition on Raylan's face and the girl's good looks and easy confidence led Tim to one conclusion, and one conclusion only:

"Another ex-wife?" He asked Raylan, mostly serious but the small part of him that was joking left him smirking nevertheless. He just loved to get under Raylan's skin - it was better entertainment than cable.

"Uh, no... She and I worked together in Houston." He stood up and walked over toward the new presence in the office, who was nonchalantly standing near the door, leaned up against the wall.

"Maxine O'Nan!" He called, stretching his arms out. She jumped slightly at the sudden exclamation, but her wide-eyed look morphed into a smile once she saw the familiar hat and stubble-bearing chin. He was a bit longer in the tooth than she remembered, but there was no denying it that it was him.

"Raylan Givens, as I live in breathe!" She met him halfway between his desk and the wall she was stationed by. They hugged tightly for a bit and pulled back, Maxine's hands still on his upper arms and his still on her hips.

"I heard you got transferred from Miami," Maxine said, "for the Tommy Bucks incident, but I didn't know you wound up here!"

"Unfortunately, I did. Why are you here?" He finally dropped his arms.

She rubbed the back of her neck, letting out one of those laughs that people gave when they were in a bind. "Well... I was undercover trying to get information on a fugitive and my cover got blown. A major shit storm ensued and the fugitive we were after is still on the lam. Chief Deputy Stevens down in Mobile sent me packing. So, here I am."

"That sounds familiar," Raylan muttered, referring to his own transfer not too long ago. "Anyway, the Chief just stepped out for coffee. He should be back in soon."

"Oh, alright. Thank you."

"Come on, I'll introduce you to everybody while you wait." He gestured for her to follow and led her over to the desk beside his. "Rachel, this is Maxine O'Nan. Maxine, this is Rachel Brooks."

"I'm the only one here that has any sense," Rachel told Maxine in a conspiratorial whisper, shaking her hand. Maxine smiled, matching Rachel's grip.

"Oh I don't doubt it," Maxine replied, sounding just as conspiratorial. "Lord knows these men need a bit of a guiding hand from us ladies." She gave a pointed look at Raylan out of the corner of her eye.

"I like to think that most of the Marshals in this office need less guidance that Raylan. You should find a new guy to set everybody standard to," a Midwestern drawl said from behind Maxine and the hatted man the speaker referred to.

She spun around to put a face to the voice, and Maxine nearly creamed herself. God, this guy was handsome; all sinew and muscle against a tight-fitting Henley t-shirt. He had a rather scrutinizing, unreadable gaze, but his solid blue eyes more than made up for his tactlessness.

Tim stood with his arms crossed, legs spread slightly to shoulder-width apart, silently assessing the newbie. Maxine leaned back on Rachel's desk, legs crossed at the ankles, appraising this blond guy and his pouty lips.

Tim wondered if her hair was naturally that color red.

She wondered how much effort it would take to get this guy into her bed. Then, almost immediately after she thought it, she felt like such a slut. She'd never thought about a coworker like this before. To console herself, she tried to explain that, really, he wasn't her coworker until_ tomorrow._ She had better get this 'swooning over her cute coworker' thing out of her system, before things took a turn for the worse.

Raylan spoke when neither of them made any attempt to have a conversation and just continued to stare at one another, like they were in an old west movie. "Maxine, this is the major pain in my ass here in Lexington."

She smiled. "Wow. _Major_ pain in his ass. Let me know when you become a royal pain in his ass and then maybe we can talk."

"I'm Tim Gutterson," he said, holding out a hand as he smiled - or at least came fairly close to smiling. This girl was snarky. He could put up with her... for now.

She shook Tim's hand, noticing the firm grip and the callous on his right index finger that came only from a trigger. He was either incredibly trigger happy, like a certain Raylan Givens she knew, or he spent most of his free time at the firing range.

God, this man had her drooling a little, Maxine realized as she retracted her hand. She wanted nothing more desperately in that moment than to tear open his shirt, right then and there, and lick every inch of his torso... as unprofessional as that would've been.

"Maxine O'Nan," she told him, snapping out of her thoughts.

"Maxine here was in the Navy," Raylan interjected randomly. Maxine arched an eyebrow at Raylan, wondering why he thought it was pertinent to share that information, while Tim arched an eyebrow at Maxine, wondering what, exactly, it was that she did in the Navy. In the next second, he decided it didn't really matter, because she was on land now, but he was glad to have a partial answer about those boots of hers thanks to Raylan's tidbit.

"Really?" Rachel asked from behind Maxine, suddenly invested in the conversation now.

"Uh, yeah, I was a clearance diver. It's not all that glorious."

"She blew shit up under water and helped get soldiers and sailors where they needed to go." Raylan reiterated, despite Maxine shooting him a serious stink-eye. "Pretty glorious sounding to me." Raylan shrugged, like he didn't notice her glare.

Tim nodded, finding himself a little more respectful of the new girl with auburn hair and dark brown eyes. On the one and only instance he had an exfiltration by water, the diving squad had really saved his and his spotter's ass by spending the three days prior clearing out the water ways, which locals had filled with so many cinderblocks that Tim probably could've walked on them for the length of the river to the safe point. But, frankly, the pontoon boat was faster.

"So, frogman, where are you from originally? You don't sound like you're from Alabama... Or Texas, for that matter." Tim recognized that she had a drawl, which had faded, he supposed from years away from home. But it wasn't the right kind of drawl for Kentucky or Alabama or Texas.

"I'm from West Virginia," she told him. That explained it, Tim accepted.

At that moment, the door to the bullpen opened again and three members of the quartet near Rachel's desk glanced over at the door. Tim, however, kept his gaze trained on Maxine. He'd have to dredge up and read her personnel file later, because there was obviously more to her than he was getting. Don't get him wrong, she hadn't lied to him - he was attentive enough and good enough at his job to know that - but he couldn't help this nagging feeling at the back of his head that said he should be getting more, he should know more.

"Maxine O'Nan! How are you? I haven't seen you since Seattle!" Art Mullen screamed, sweeping into the office with two drink holders of coffee. Tim took the holders from Art's hands during his awkward, impeded attempt at a hug, and began to distribute the coffee, just as something to do. He needed to look busy to recover from his prolonged staring at the new transfer. And, no, he wasn't checking her out, he was... surveying. Yeah, that's a good word for what he was doing: Surveying.

"Yeah, let's refrain from talking about _that,_" she laughed that awkward laugh again. "It scarred, you know."

"Yeah, well, bullets will tend to do that." He ushered her into his office, pausing to yank his coffee out of the holder in Tim's grasp, before going inside and shutting the door. Tim frowned, sitting down in his desk. Usually, because of his desk's position, he could hear all of Art's activities if the door was open. But the instant he closed the door, it was like a damned, heat-sealed mason jar.

"Ain't she a pretty little thing?" Raylan asked, taking his coffee from Tim as Tim watched her and Art talk through the glass, trying to reconnoiter what exactly their conversation was about by only reading Art's mouth.

"I suppose," Tim said, shrugging noncommittally. She didn't really look to be his type, but he could see how she would be appealing. Especially to Raylan, who always seemed to get himself tangled up with these light-haired, confident, southern girls that were miles outside of his league.

"Raylan," he spoke, softly. He had a concern, and a fairly well based one at that. "You didn't put your dick in her, did you?"

Raylan sputtered on his coffee, coughing to clear his airway as he stared at the blond man in front of him. "What the hell, Tim? No! I was like a mentor to her for about a year before I shipped off to Miami. She's a good kid, and pretty as a bouquet, but I'm not gonna fuck her!"

"You say that a lot... Does it ever work out?" Tim taunted, smirking at the man about 12 years his senior. Raylan fake-lunged for him and Tim didn't flinch away. He stood stock still and, after he was sure Raylan was done, merely raised his hands in surrender and walked away.

"Touchy, touchy!" Tim called over his shoulder. Sometimes, Raylan was just too easy.

* * *

Maxine sighed as she took a seat at her new desk. She didn't appreciate having her back to a window, which you could have perfect view of from a nearby rooftop, and she didn't like being the closest desk to the main entrance. But, it would do, she supposed - after all, it wasn't like she had much say in the matter. She started on the work of re-registering herself into a new computer with the help of one of the techies, and she had to run a quick inventory of her weapons once that was completed. They were government issued, after all, and said government liked to keep track of them.

She finished up the paper work on her weapons and glanced around. She needed someone to sign it as a witness and she couldn't find anyone that looked familiar until - thank heavens - Raylan walked in.

"Ray, can you sign this for me?" Maxine asked, waving the file full of papers and a ball point pen at him.

"Weapons relocation forms," Raylan said knowingly, taking the file from her. He initialed in the right places and signed the witness line and dated it before he handed it back to Maxine. "Those were a pain in the bitch for me when I transferred here."

" 'A pain in the bitch?' " she repeated, not quite sure she heard him right. Raylan had always had a pretty colorful vocabulary, one that Maxine had, unfortunately, picked up. She had heard plenty of times that being so vulgar wasn't lady-like, but lady-like got you nowhere in a predominately male workforce. Damned glass ceilings and all that.

She wondered about Rachel briefly. Maybe her fears of being regarded as someone who wasn't an equal is what had her running around in uncomfortable looking pant suits and keeping her hair up like that. Maxine had never been one to do such things, preferring her own clothes instead of pant suits that looked like they belonged to someone else - like she was masquerading as a responsible adult.

"Yeah, a pain in the bitch."

Honestly, she wondered where Raylan got a phrase such as that one

"Tell me, Raylan," she said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. "Where, exactly, on the human body does one find a 'bitch?' "

"Well, if you're Raylan," Tim spoke, gliding through the morning office chaos with five cups of coffee (one in his left hand, and four in a holder balanced in his right,) "they tend to be on his left ring finger."

Maxine snickered. Oh, Tim was a God send: Pretty _and_ snarky? She'd hit the coworker crush jackpot.

Raylan rolled his eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry, Timothy, when was the last time you were happy?"

Maxine rolled her eyes as well. Like the key to happiness was getting hitched. Maxine had never really gotten the idea of marriage. Sure, it had certain tax benefits and such, but it seemed dumb to drag the law into the midst of love between two people.

"I'm sorry, pot, I haven't introduced you to my friend, kettle, have I?" Tim asked, giving Raylan a look that said 'if we play this game, I'll win.'

Maxine snickered again and stared at the paper cup when Tim handed her a coffee. She glanced at it and then up at Tim. Back in Mobile - and in Houston - it was a free-for-all when it came to coffee. This was only her second day here, but she'd already noticed that someone brought everybody else coffee in the morning.

"Oh, you didn't have to," Maxine told Tim. She hadn't asked for it, and she hadn't told him how she liked it.

He shrugged. "It was my turn to buy. Anyway, I didn't know how you took it so I just left it black."

"Well... thanks," she said, smiling and taking it from him. She reached into her purse, which was in the bottom drawer of her desk, and pulled out a couple of shots of dairy creamer and a packet of Splenda. She was glad that she had the foresight to grab some of those that morning.

"I didn't know they let girls into the Boy Scouts," Raylan commented, obviously a little surprised at her preparedness. Maxine smiled and replied, "They don't. I didn't get caught impersonating a boy until my tits came in -"

She was cut off by a rather strange noise from Marshal Gutterson and she glanced up just in time to see that in fact, it was him laughing. He caught himself and replied, "Yeah, I could see how that would make things just a little more difficult."

"Tell me about it," she snickered. It was nice to see that Tim wasn't only funny, but he could appreciate the humor of others as well.

"Hey, stop shootin' the shit!" Art barked, walking out of his fishbowl and picking up one of the coffees on Tim's desktop with his name on it's side. "Just got a call from WITSEC. Someone's location has been compromised and we need a team to escort them to the safe house."

"How could someone's location be compromised?" Maxine asked, arching an eyebrow. In her almost-four years of working for the Marshal Service, she had never had to relocate a witness before. But, then again, most witnesses weren't stupid enough to violate the guidelines. It was probably something like them making a phone call they shouldn't have, or someone's young daughter revealing where they used to live.

"It could be any number of things," Raylan told her, running over to his desk to grab his gun and jacket. "They could've just walked by at the wrong time when a news crew was filming and someone just... recognized them in the background. Or, they could've contacted someone from their past life. It -"

"Raylan, I want you to hang back for this one," Art cut him off, causing everyone to halt where they were. "Rachel needs back-up down in Versailles. Maxine and Tim can handle this one." Art paused and turned to Tim. "That is, if you don't mind picking up a stray."

Tim smirked, recalling that he had been the 'stray,' following around on Rachel's heels near a year ago. Hell, Garcia had even taken to calling him 'Ole Yeller.' "Nah, I'd be happy to," Tim conceded, shrugging his shoulders. He pointed at Maxine, a warning look in his eyes. "Just don't piss in my car."

"I'm not promising anything."

The drive to the witness' home was a fairly quiet one, with Tim behind the wheel of a government-black SUV filling her in on the witness for the first bit of the journey. Apparently, the man they were relocating had witnessed some crime up in Boston that involved a human trafficking ring, and while his testimony put most of the men away, a couple of the higher ups in the ring didn't get pegged with much. They could still be after him for revenge, and thus, they were relocating the witness.

"I'm warning you, he's kind of a dick to women," Tim spoke after an hour of driving and about 34 minutes of no conversation. "Last time when it was Rachel and I, he gave her all sorts of shit. Kept asking her if she wanted to help him christen the bed, trying to grope her, not taking her seriously when she gave him orders."

Maxine snorted. "I don't know if you've noticed, but male fugitives don't seem to really perceive female officers as threats. And men have issues seeing women has someone capable of protecting them, which is bullshit, as I'm sure you've come to know."

_Ain't that the truth,_ Tim thought.

The drive to Ashland, normally, only took about two hours, but they wound up sitting in traffic in the SUV for about 45 minutes because of a big rig that hit another car and rolled, killing a guy in the process. Tim wanted to ask her some questions, but he had thirty million of them running through his head and he couldn't figure out which ones to ask. And he thought she wouldn't want to reply to any of them anyway, so he stayed quiet. He knew how he hated getting the third degree when he was the newbie in the office, so he was going to extend her the courtesy no one had offered him when he was the new guy. Plus, Tim Gutterson wasn't usually one to engage in superficial, idle conversation. It was why he spoke such fluent sarcasm; it was usually off-putting enough to get the conversation to a quick end.

"What's your sign, Gutterson?" Maxine asked, glancing up from her phone. He noticed she had two, one was the standard issue Marshal Service Blackberry, and one was the latest model of iPhone, which he figured was her personal. She had the iPhone in her hand now.

"My zodiac sign? You know that horoscope shit is all lies."

"I dunno," Maxine drawled. "I think there's some truth in it, just like the truth that when it's a full moon, people start acting stupid."

"That one's easily explainable though -"

"What's your sign?" Maxine interrupted again, glaring at him and tilting her head to the side.

He sighed, hands lifting in a helpless motion but his wrists still resting on the wheel. "I dunno. Scorpio, I think?"

" 'You think?' When's your birthday?"

"November third."

"Yep, you're a Scorpio. Let's see... Ooh, what Scorpio's like in bed." She wiggled her eyebrows at him, smiling. She was hoping to make him uncomfortable, but when he'd seen what he'd seen, and when he'd dealt with Raylan Givens for long enough, he didn't get uncomfortable that easy. He didn't even get out of bed for that wimpy attempt at uncomfortable.

"Honey, if you're that interested, I'm sure we've got enough time," he taunted, gesturing to the miles of traffic stretching out before them. "Whattaya say we just hop in the backseat and fuck each other into oblivion?"

"Only in your dreams - and good luck then, too. I'm sure Dream-Me has high standards." She smirked at her reply, and Tim had to admit: She thought quickly.

"Oh, this is good," Maxine said, laughter in her voice. " 'Scorpio men always aim to please, but watch out with the dirty talk - you might bite off more than a mouthful.' " She looked up at Tim. "Sound familiar, Timothy?"

He scoffed and looked over at her out of the corner of his eye. "Which part?"

She snickered and placed her phone in her bag, in the floorboard. That's when Tim noticed she was wearing the military boots that he'd noticed yesterday. "Nice boots," he told her.

"All the better to store knives in, my dear," she said, winking as she pulled a knife out of one.

Huh. And here he thought they were a fashion statement, like her black denim shirt and black and red plaid skirt seemed to be. But, nope, they were practical.

He had noticed before they left the office that she didn't dress as coldly and professionally as Rachel or some of the other women around the courthouse, especially today. She was in a short skirt which (he hadn't been looking, promise, but she bent down to grab something and he had just... noticed) she wore spandex shorts underneath. A skirt that short wouldn't be inappropriate for any other office, but for a law enforcement office?

Raylan had brought up the same point just as Maxine was gathering up her things to leave the office an hour and change ago, and Maxine arched an eyebrow at him. Tim thought about it and figured that a pencil skirt that came down to her calves would be hard to maneuver in during a firefight or a foot chase. He could just tell by Maxine's vibe she was going to say that, and she did, all while tearing Raylan a new one right in front of the other Marshals.

"So. Were you in the military?" she asked, eyes on the fringes of his cross hair tattoo.

Tim had a reflex response of "Huh?" whenever someone brought up his service, but sensing that she was just curious about the tattoo, he replied. "Yep."

Tim stared at his tattoo, a rifle's silhouette spanning horizontally across the diameter of the cross hairs and degrees one would typically find when they looked through a rifle scope. He remembered getting it when he was hammered the day after he graduated sniper school. He and his buddy Mark staggered into a tattoo parlor, and Mark had convinced him that it was a good idea.

Despite how drunk he was, Tim remembered Ranger-ing through the pain and not saying a damned thing, but he did recall having half-moon shapes indented into his palms from his nails as he walked out of the tattoo parlor.

She nodded and guessed, "Marine?" All Marines were trained infantry men, she knew. But she had to ask because Tim didn't seem to have the arrogance that came with being a jar-head.

"Hell no. Army."

"Ah. I was about to say, you look like you've got too much brains to be one of the few and one of the way-too-proud."

He felt his lips twitch upwards and that was the end of conversation for about three minutes. Tim had no issue with uncomfortable silences, but it was the comfortable one settling around the two of them that had him turning on the radio. The comfortable silences were the dangerous ones - they made you put your guard down.

"What're you up for?" Tim asked her, scanning the radio stations. She held her hand out at a familiar drum beat, gasping.

"Stop! There!"

_I got my mind set on you,_

_I got my mind set on you,_

_I got my mind set on you,_

_I got my mind set on you._

"I haven't heard this song in forever," she laughed. "God, I remember my daddy singing along to the radio when he was cooking and this song was on every damn station, almost like clockwork, for dinner every day, no matter how early or late Dad started on it."

Tim arched an eyebrow at her. She had to be close to his age, then, because he remembered the song as well. He didn't reply, mainly because he didn't know how and secondly because he didn't want to disturb her campy, George Harrison hum-along.

* * *

"Scott, it's Marshal Gutterson," Tim barked, pounding on the door of the bungalow in an Ashland suburb. "Open up!"

There was the sound of footsteps on floorboards, and, on a precautionary whim, Maxine scanned the road and neighborhood for movement. She noticed a cat running across the road with a chipmunk in its mouth and an elderly woman sipping sweet tea on her porch, but she didn't see any threat.

It was unseasonably warm for November in Kentucky - so unseasonably warm that no one needed coats and men were doing yard work shirtless.

She turned back just to see Scott Richards, or as the Persian traffickers knew him, Allen Tate, open the door. Scott Richards was a middle aged man with an inch or two on Maxine, which meant about two or three on Tim. He had short hair, that was slowly receding, and he was dressed casually.

Well, Scott Richards was as casual as a man could be with an aluminum baseball bat in his grasp.

"Oh, it's you; the big, bad, Army-man. I was hoping for the cowboy." He had a voice like broken glass: it just grated over Maxine's skin and made her itch. Something about his demeanor told her that he didn't exactly have a clean record before he witnessed whatever it was that he witnessed.

"He's otherwise engaged. We're here to escort you to a new location," Tim said, all business.

"Why?" Scott demanded.

Maxine and Tim glanced at each other. You would think that, if his attackers noticed him, he'd have received a threat or two by now and he'd be, at the very least, aware that he needed to get the hell out of Dodge as fucking quick as he could.

"You gave yourself away the other day," Maxine elaborated, turning back to look at Scott. "You walked across the background of a news crew's camera."

"Oh, hello, you're new," Scott commented, eyes raking down Maxine's body. "I didn't know the Marshals Service was employing such whores now." Maxine wanted to give him a snappy reply akin to something like 'Well, both are the nation's oldest professions,' but Tim beat her to the punch.

"Sir," Tim butted in, jaw clenched. "Pack up your things. We have to relocate you. Sooner would be better than later."

Maxine appreciated the silent, subtle defense of her honor, but she could've done it herself... in a lot louder, less subtle, and more memorable way.

"Alright, alright. Come on in."

Tim rolled his eyes and entered. Both he and Maxine knew it was merely a formality to be invited inside the house because USMS owned the the building and property, or at least paid the rent on it. But, still, they allowed the man his moment of pride and waited.

"Oh, hey," Tim said, just thinking of something. "Go back out to the van, pick up the vest from the trunk, and bring it in here. We'll have Scott put it on under his shirt. Never know what might happen between here and Lexington."

It was a good point. If there was backed up traffic on the way back like there was on the way up, she'd prefer to have Scott in a vest in case someone had an ambush set up.

She nodded and headed out to the van to get it, but paused. Someone had joined the old woman on the porch with a newspaper. There was no second glass of sweet tea on the table between their chairs. Suspicious. What Kentuckian in their right mind walked out into a humid, warm fall day ("an Indian summer", the radio meteorology called it earlier that day) to sit on the porch and read their paper and not bring a glass of iced tea with them?

She grabbed the vest and speedily, but nonchalantly, made it into Scott's house. She handed it to the man to put on under his clothes. "Scott, is there a man that lives in the house across the street?"

"No. As far as I know it's just the old lady and her terrier." He peeled off his shirt and Maxine stared at his face, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of her staring at his beer gut. "Why? You gotta itch that you need a man to scratch? Baby doll, I could do that for you right here, right now. Army-man could watch, if that's what gets you purring."

God, he was deplorable. But there was no time to think about that. She grabbed Scott by the ear and dragged him into the downstairs hallway, where there weren't any windows. "Tim," she hissed into the first-floor bathroom door.

"Yes?" Tim replied, and she could practically hear the exasperation in his voice. "Is there a reason you feel the need to interrupt a man mid-stream?"

"There's an issue: the man across the road on the porch."

"Oh, heaven forbid a man sit on his porch and enjoy the nice weather," Tim murmured sarcastically above the sound of the toilet flushing. She heard him wash his hands and then he opened up the door. "What's got you so out of sorts, now?" he asked once more.

"Look." She led him to the living room and pointed at the window he needed to look out of to see what she saw.

Tim did look, and at first he figured it was nothing, just a man on a porch with an elderly lady reading his newspaper. But then he noticed the same thing Maxine did: Only one glass of sweet tea. Then he noticed two things Maxine hadn't: the man was in all black and the elderly woman was fidgeting and nervous.

"Damn it," Tim muttered. He looked over at Maxine. "Check out the back." He noticed Scott shifting nervously and pointed at him. "Stay still, get in the bathroom, lock the door."

He paced up and down the hallway, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do. He had a hostage situation on his hands here, his rifle was in the SUV, and _he_ was one of the hostages. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._

Scott hid in the bathroom, as instructed, and Maxine returned from scoping out the backyard. "The neighbor across the way either has targets set up on the roof for rifle practice, or we got a real problem."

Tim cursed again. So much for a routine relocation. That traffic must've really hit at just the right time for them to set up - now that he considered it, the traffic didn't really seem like that much of a coincidence.


	2. That Head of Yours

Maxine and Tim wound up in the second most defensible room in the house: the laundry room. The walls were cinder block, and there was only one window that was tiny and fairly high up on the wall. They left the door open because the laundry room was the last line of defense for the bathroom. Anyone that tried to get to the bathroom would have to go by the laundry room.

Maxine took a deep breath to calm her shaking hands and looked at Tim.

"Hey, if you're a sniper, would you be looking in big windows or little ones?"

"Big windows if you're not a pro," Tim said. "But you could probably catch their attention through a little one."

"Let's try it," she said. "I'm gonna move some things in front of the window and see if this guy turns his rifle on it. If he breaks the window, we sit still, and then..." She crawled across the floor to the pantry there in the room and pulled out a container of ketchup. "We move something across the window that looks like a person, splatter this on the wall - make them think they've taken one of us out and it's safe to come in. But we'll be here with thirty bullets between us."

Tim stared at her.

"Call backup first, of course."

"Where the hell are you getting this idea?"

"I just think that if we've got one place to thin out these guys, it's in the bottle neck of this hallway."

"Alright, call for backup. We'll give it a shot. But we gotta do this first."

Twenty minutes later, Maxine and Tim had managed to move the washer and dryer so they had protection as long as they stayed in between the wall and the metal machines.

"Alright, I think we've got his attention," Tim said, referring to the rifleman.

Maxine smiled and readied her ketchup bottle as Tim quickly moved a mop in front - only to have a bullet tear through it. Maxine splattered the far wall with their improvised fake blood.

The tracer stayed trained on the wall, and Maxine moved to join Tim as they stared at the bullet hole in the wall and the laser beam.

"Alright, we're going to calculatedly blind fire back at the rifleman," Tim said immediately. "That way, if it all goes to shit, we can have a way out the back."

"Sure," Maxine said. Tim took his gun and held it in the window sill, lined it up as best he could with the laser and bullet hole, and fired. The man behind the gun howled in pain, which meant Tim had hit meat, but Maxine jumped to her feet to look out the window, and blew a hole in the head of the man on the back porch over a fence and some 25 or so meters away.

Tim admired her skill for a moment before he broke out the rest of the window with the barrel of his own gun and offered a foot hold to Maxine. "Get me that rifle," he ordered. She nodded and scrambled out, ran across the backyard, hopped the fence, and pried the rifle from the man's bloody hands.

Ugh. Gross.

She ran back to the house, and realized she couldn't get back in the way she got out. So, she slid the rifle through the window and promised that she'd find a better way in.

She got in the side door, and found herself in the kitchen. Her mind started racing. She could do so much damage if she only got a hold of -

Machine gun fire peppered in through the window in the living room, which gave a view of the kitchen. She hit the deck and belly-crawled through broken glass to get to the cabinets. She searched for anything - _anything_ - in that kitchen that could help her and Tim. She pilfered through the lower drawers and found a box set of three disposable cameras from Sam's Club.

_Jackpot._

She belly crawled near the wall, moving shit out of the way as she got to the front door - except for the cordless phone she found. She needed that for wire. Oh, and she needed that roll of duct tape under the couch too.

She yanked the knife out of her boot and cracked open the side of one of the cameras before she smacked the phone against the wall, pulled out the batteries, and yanked out a couple of wires. She wrapped the wires she just pulled out of the phone around the pair that were coming out of the disposable camera's capacitor. She attached the ends of the phone wires to the door handle via duct tape and made sure it was unlocked before she hit the button to charge the camera's flash. She taped the camera to the body of the door because, well, she had a short length of wire and if the camera was just hanging there it might rip the wires and duct tape off the inside handle.

She belly crawled to the hallway and then scrambled to her feet with her supplies, running to the bathroom to set up another. She looked at Scott, breathing hard. "You lock this door, and don't hit this charge button until after I leave, okay?"

Scott nodded, and Maxine noticed that the man had tears on his face.

She shut the door behind her and thought. Which would be the best way to enter the house? She and Tim needed their door open, so that was out of the question, but where to put the final taser?

Wait. That guy had seen her come in through the side door, or else why would he have peppered the kitchen with gunfire?

She had to move fast, so she didn't bother to crawl until the gunfire erupted again. She only hung out by the side door, thinking that if the gunman relayed that the side door had been tampered with, her taser would be wasted. So, instead, she used the cover of the kitchen counter to rig up the backdoor, and then she was back in the laundry room, gun at the ready and feeling a whole lot better about their situation.

"What did you do?" Tim asked, breathing raggedly. She explained that it was a prank she'd learned in basic training, but it still had the potential to kill if the man grabbed the door handle just _so._

Since they figured they couldn't be dealing with more than six men - five now that the rifleman was dead - they could easily thin out the group and have Scott safe in no time.

Maxine readied her pistol as she heard a whole lot of _nothing. _There was absolute silence outside the house. Tim contacted their backup and advised them to use the side door if they had no other open entrances - it was the only one that was safe, after all.

Maxine heard footsteps in the backyard, and Tim silently moved from his position to the end of the hallway, so he could spin around the corner and shoot the man soon-to-be stunned by the current from the camera that was running through the knob.

He heard the sound of boots on the patio deck and then -

"OW! SHIT!"

He wheeled around and fired off two shots through the glass of the backdoor. He hit both men, one shot in each of their hearts. They went limp like rag dolls, hitting the ground, and Tim retreated quickly back to the laundry room. He sat on the floor behind the washing machine, breathing heavily like Maxine was.

This guerrilla warfare shit was exhausting. Maxine felt like she was inches away from a panic attack, so she started counting to ten in every language she could: English, Spanish, Japanese, Swahili, Arabic.

Maxine didn't have a lot of bad memories from her time in the service, but the one she did have involved a situation a lot like this. They were prepping on land to clear out a bay for an amphibious op some 20 clicks east of the infil site. Some bad guys got wind of it and she wound up hunkered down behind a rock outcropping with a dying team mate on her lap as gunfire rained down on her.

Tim, however, was looking very much like he was in full-flashback, eyes dilated and breathing heavy and sweaty. He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head back against the cold concrete, and she wondered if he was gonna be okay, until she heard a slight movement in the hall.

Tim had his rifle out and fired a shot into the man's head before she could even turn to look. Another man came around the door frame to take a shot at Tim, but Tim beat him and fired a bullet through his heart.

Maxine and Tim were both poised behind their make-shift sandbags and ready to fire given the opportunity. The next pair of footsteps were cut off by a familiar voice:

"US MARSHALS, DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND GET YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!"

Raylan.

"You guys okay?!" Raylan called as she heard the sound of cuffs snapping.

"We're fine!" Maxine responded. "Scott's in the bathroom." Rachel went to open the bathroom door, but before Maxine could advise her otherwise, she got shocked hard enough for her to yell "FUCK!"

"Thank God," Maxine sighed as she and Scott stepped out of the house, Tim bedraggled-ly staggering behind her. She handed him off to Raylan and Rachel, who she gave a sympathetic look to for shocking. Rachel just smiled, gave her a pat on the shoulder as an apology for one crazy-ass first day on the job, and then walked away.

Tim sat down on the porch steps, sighing and raking a hand down his face. "Are you alright?" Maxine asked him. He hadn't done too hot in the laundry room, and she knew how crazy PTSD episodes could get.

"Yeah, I will be. Give me a bit."

"I always count to ten," Maxine said after a moment of silence. Tim huffed, mainly because he thought he implied that he'd like her to be quiet. But, she _had_ saved his ass and her own back there with that camera trick, so he figured he should at least consider hearing her out.

"I start in English. Then Spanish, Japanese, Arabic, Swahili," she told him.

"I don't speak Spanish or Japanese or Swahili."

"Arabic? Kurdish?" she chanced. Had he done his service in Afghanistan or in Iraq? Because that would be a whole different list of possible languages if he served in Afghanistan.

Tim huffed. "Yeah." She sat and waited as Tim counted in Arabic under his breath, then in English, then in Kurdish.

"Better?"

"A little."

"These happen often?"

Tim didn't say anything, which she took to be a 'yes.' They sat in silence again until Art came up with two cups of coffee, one for each of them.

"Thanks," Maxine said, taking her cup. Tim was still cradling his head, so Art hung on to his on the off-chance the Iraq veteran would look up. Art cleared his throat and said, "Maxine, the paramedics want to check you out because of the whole 'playing with electricity' and 'crawling across glass' thing."

"Oh, yeah, sure," she said, standing and walking over to the waiting stretcher by the ambulance.

"Gutterson, do I need to give you the rest of the week off?" Art asked once she was out of earshot. Tim thought it was rather dumb that he waited, because she obviously knew about his PTSD already if she knew how to help him.

Tim shook his head. "No, no. I need something to do. I'll be in, in the morning," Tim said quickly. He was silent for a bit until he said, "That old woman across the street. Is she okay?"

"Yeah, she got whacked over the head with a rifle, but her dog managed to do some serious damage on the gunman. He didn't get too far after."

Tim smiled and nodded, glad she was alright at least. He rubbed his forehead. It had gotten cold after the sun went down. He held out his hand and Art handed him his coffee. He took a large drink of it to warm him, but also to burn through the bad memories and the horrible feeling he had in his stomach.

Tim stood, toeing the ground with his boot.

"I'll drive back to Lexington," Maxine volunteered as she walked back up to the porch. "We can swing through somewhere and get dinner. Sound good?"

Tim didn't respond, he just took a sip of his coffee. Maxine and Art stood by, just waiting for him to do something. He glanced between them both and then motioned for Maxine to take the lead, realizing that she required a response. "Go on, I'll buy us dinner."

Maxine snorted. "No, we're going Dutch on this one. I ain't lettin' you get any ideas in that head o' yours."

"What sort of ideas could I possibly get?" Tim questioned, following her down the sidewalk to their SUV. Scott or Allen or whatever his name was, thankfully, had an armed convoy taking him to Lexington for safe-keeping. That meant Tim got to go home earlier and try to sleep before failing and going on a run for a few hours in the middle of the night to chase off his demons before going back to bed to not-sleep and just stare at the ceiling.

It sucked, sure, but really, it was more pleasant than it sounded.

"I dunno, you tell me. But I think it's safe to say that any ideas you may get are bizarre and wrong because of all the hair gel that's probably seeped through your scalp to your brain."

Tim smiled a little at that and sat in the passenger seat as Maxine adjusted the seat and mirrors. She liked to sit a little closer to the wheel than Tim did, but she was still longer in the waist than he was. She backed out of the driveway and maneuvered her way through the traffic and out to I-64.

Maxine was trying her damnedest to give him something constant to keep him from sinking too deep into his memories, but she also had to keep him distracted and conversing.

"You know," Maxine started. "I grew up not too far from here."

Tim didn't reply, but he gave her that look with a tilted head he gave Raylan when he was listening.

"I lived in a little town called Wayne, where half the population was below the poverty line and those that weren't worked for the government. Anyway, it's about a thirty or forty minute drive from here."

Tim considered not replying, but for whatever reason, he did. "I grew up in Tulsa But I prefer to think of Kentucky as my home now. Kind of fallen in love with the place."

"Coal boy, huh?" Maxine teased.

Tim snorted. "Just enough of a coal boy to know natural gas is the way to go. My dad worked fracking shale, so."

Maxine nodded, eager to get him and keep him talking. "So, what was crack-shot Tim Gutterson like in high school?"

"I was a little shit," Tim replied, smiling as he sipped at his coffee. "I shouldn't have been, because I was scrawny and a little pussy, but I was." He paused, wondering where to go from there. "My two older brothers were football players, and they were good at it, but I was too scared for a contact sport. I ran track."

"Were you any good?"

He shrugged. "I made it to state one year in hurdles."

"Did you win?"

"Oh, hell no."

* * *

The next day, for the AUSA meetings they had to bullshit their way through, Maxine decided to dress as professionally as she could manage. She slipped on a plaid-button up and a black mini skirt (she had a pair of jeans in her locker to change into later) and a black blazer which she intended to ditch the minute the AUSA guys left.

"So you're telling me," AUSA number one asked. "That you used the laser to tell which angle he was at and just blind fired?"

"The plan was to just get him spooked enough to clear the window and let Maxine have a shot," Tim repeated.

"You didn't think to identify yourself first?" AUSA number two demanded.

Maxine looked at him like he was stupid, interrupting Tim's response. "They were already after Scott - Sorry, Mr. Tate. They really wanted him dead, they had the whole place surrounded. They wanted us all dead. They'd probably kill their hostages too. It wouldn't matter if we were both federal marshals because they would've killed us and anyone who could've pegged them. So, no, I didn't identify myself. I didn't think it'd make much of a difference."

Art watched from the doorway, impressed. He saw a whole lot of potential in this new marshal of his.

"God, I hate AUSA agents," Maxine lamented, plopping down at her desk on Rachel's left. Raylan snorted from Rachel's right. "Yeah, tell me about it."

"Are they all assholes?"

"Nope," Raylan replied. "Just most of them, most of the time. I've met one or two that are alright."

"How many have you met?"

"Enough that he needs to start counting them on his toes," Tim said, slipping back into the office with a bag.

"What's that?" Maxine asked, nodding to the doggy bag in his hand.

"Only the best buffalo wings you can get in Lexington. I needed some comfort food before I dealt with these assholes." He took a container out of the bag and offered it up to Maxine. "Want some?"

Maxine arched an eyebrow. "Now, Timothy. What did I say about you gettin' ideas?" Sure, she wanted Tim as badly as Pavlov's dog wanted that treat, but she had to play it cool around him. She had to stay aloof.

"I dunno, I think my hair gel this morning exacerbated my existing condition."

She smiled and took the container when Art called Tim into the conference room. Tim gave them an eyebrow raise and then looked to the ceiling as if to say, 'God, please, help me.' He wheeled around on his heels and walked off to the conference room. Maxine held up the container to Rachel and Raylan. "Y'all want some?"

"No, thank you," Rachel smiled. "I've had those 'best buffalo wings you can get in Lexington' a few too many times. The novelty's begun to wear off."

Raylan shook his head and gestured down at his shirt. "It's white, I wouldn't want to stain it."

"Suit yourselves." She took a big bite out of a wing and nodded. These were pretty magnificent. She was too busy admiring the buffalo wing to notice the look Rachel and Raylan shared.

"I hate AUSA agents," Tim lamented as he sat at his desk, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyelids. "They make you spend the day answering the same questions over and over, give you paper work to fill out, and then you get behind on the paperwork for the case you were doing before they decided to stick their nose in it."

"I hear that," Raylan snickered.

"Rachel?" Maxine asked. Rachel looked up to peek over the cubicle wall. "You ever been investigated by the AUSA?"

"Nope."

"Goody-two-shoes," Raylan taunted.

Tim leaned back, stretching. Maxine tried not to stare at how the muscles and sinew of his arms moved under his skin. "Fuck off, Raylan, you're just jealous that Rachel's got a better head on her shoulders than you do - a prettier face too."

Raylan snickered. "I'm sorry, but are these bruises upsetting you?" He gestured to the bruises on his face that he apparently got trying to break up a bar-brawl.

"I think Tim is just concerned about your beauty pageant career," Maxine said dryly, turning back to her paper work.

"Didn't you hear? I was banned from those. It wasn't fair to the competition."

"Oh, I'm sure," Rachel laughed.

"Quit flirtin'," Art commented, poking his head out the door. "Tim, Raylan? You're doing transport today. Maxine? The truck driver that flipped his car on 64, the one that held you and Tim up to get in place, gave up the guy who paid him. Some chop-shop owner in Covington."

Maxine went out later to pick up said fugitive because she needed a break from the mountains of paper work. Seriously, it was like the fucking Tibet-Nepal border on her desk top. The perp ran a chop shop down in Covington, and had been off the grid for the past six months, apparently working with Persian human traffickers.

"Shit," she muttered, noticing all the cars. She took down the license plate numbers in her head and then headed in to the garage as confidently as she could. The garage was a chop shop, but it doubled as an official, genuine business, from what she could tell. She paused at the door and surveyed the area, ignoring the BEWARE OF DOG sign. Three mechanics under or inside cars, tinkering. Two men by the door to an office, seemingly just conversing, but she noticed the lug wrenches in their grips. Through the office windows, she spotted the man she was looking for: Alex Young.

"Hey, boys," she greeted, stepping inside and smiling kindly. "Can I talk to Alex?"

"And why should we let you, sweetie?" one of the doormen said, smiling at her. He had a mouth like someone who chewed dip, that was for sure.

"Because if you don't I'm going to have to arrest you for obstructing a federal case." She pulled her jacket back and revealed her badge and her side-arm.

That was the shot heard round the world. They both came at her with their make-shift weapons. She ducked the first one and yelped like a wounded dog when the second wrench got her in the ribs. She managed to grab her attacker's wrist and jerk it an unnatural way. He cried out in pain and she took him down with a kick to the back of the knee, and pulled out her gun, spinning around while she kept her boot pressed down onto the man's injured wrist.

"US Federal Marshal!" She screamed in as masculine a way as she could. "LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS!"

The two men under cars slid out on their wheelie-contraptions, hands up. The third man, who had been in the engine, slowly spun around, hands up but eyes narrowed angrily.

"Alright, now we're getting somewhere," she sighed, rubbing her forehead with her free hand. "ALEX YOUNG, GET OUT HERE NOW OR WE'RE GOING TO HAVE TO MAKE THIS A LOT -" That's when she heard glass breaking from inside the office.

Shit.

She bolted out the front door and around the side of the garage the office was on, where a window had just been busted out. Alex Young was running for it, all 6' 3" of him making it down rows of junk cars. She leveled her pistol and took the shot, nailing him in the back of his right knee. He hit the dirt and she sighed, relieved.

Until she heard the growl. She spun around and raised her gun just in time for a pit bull to sink it's teeth and clamp it's jaw down on her right elbow - her gun elbow. She yelped and dropped her pistol, she fell to the ground with the weight of the dog knocking her off balance. The dog went for her face, and she grabbed her boot knife. Thank God for preparedness, she thought as she thunked the knife through the dog's skull, right before it came in contact with her cheek. The dog stilled and she gingerly removed her arm out from underneath it. She hissed as she noticed the spray of blood coming from it. She knew arterial bleeding when she saw it.

* * *

"Oh, hey there, dog-whisperer," Art greeted as Maxine walked in the next day. Her arm was wrapped up in layers and layers of gauze (she needed seven stitches, thank you) and her left side was black and blue, with a fractured rib from the asshole with the lug wrench, who's wrist she broke.

"Hi, Art," she greeted, holding out the two containers of coffee. It was her day, because it was Thursday after all. Tim had Mondays, Art had Tuesdays, Raylan had Wednesdays, and Maxine had Thursdays. Rachel was responsible for Fridays. On weekends, it was every man for themselves.

"Why, thank you, Maxine," he replied, taking the containers. "We need you to give us any information on the other chop shop workers you can."

"Alright, sure," she replied.

"Tim, help her out with the files, please?"

After she got attacked, the chop shop workers got the hell out of Dodge, and local law enforcement wouldn't be able to find them without photos and car descriptions because, most likely, they were under fake names.

"Sure thing," Tim complied, rubbing at his forehead.

She told him all she could and the duo wound up sprawled on the conference room floor, going through files of all of Alex Young's associates, and their associates. Tim's computer was going through the DMV database for the people those cars belonged to. They were just waiting for the 'ding.'

"So, what did you do yesterday?" Maxine asked.

"We were transporting a pregnant convict to her ultrasound, got jumped and cuffed and she got sprung. But then it turned out the guys that sprung her just wanted to sell her baby on the black market or something. It was about the time we finally found her and her captors that you wound up in the hospital."

"Well we were just busy yesterday, weren't we?" Maxine said, smiling, but she let it slip off her face when she noticed Tim's steely look. Something clearly happened yesterday.

"Shit, Tim, did you shoot someone?" It was merely SWAG that led her to that conclusion; a "scientific wild-ass guess."

"He had a gun pressed to her stomach," Tim said, not meeting her eyes. Maxine merely nodded, because she understood. In his position, she would've done the same thing.

At the end of the day, they had BOLOs out on every vehicle and every perp they could nail down, and after Maxine got her knife back from evidence, Tim stood at her desk, looking very much like he wanted to ask something.

"Yes, Timothy?" she asked, looking up at him.

"How did you remember those plates?" he finally asked. She couldn't help but notice that he didn't really move his mouth when he talked.

"They're a lot like deck levels on a ship and bulkhead numbers. You come up with -"

"Memorization tricks," Tim finished.

"Yeah," Maxine smiled.

"They did that at Sniper School. They started training us to gather intelligence, make you memorize items on a table or memorize the items on a person and then, after 12 hours of intense training, recite them back. I understand coming up with systems for stuff like that."

Maxine nodded, turning back to her computer, reading up on the perps they had BOLOs out on. He still stood there, shifting from foot-to-foot.

"What can I do for you now, Tim?"

"I was wondering. Um..." He glanced over at Raylan, who was grinning at his computer screen like he was a possum eating shit. Rachel was, thankfully, occupied by talking to Art. He would've hated to see the look on her face if she saw him floundering like this.

He turned back to Maxine, sighing. "There's this bar I know and they've usually got not-so-shitty music and good food and cold beer. Would you like to come with me tomorrow evening?"

"Timothy, is this a date?" Maxine teased, secretly squealing about it. She had thought for the past couple of days he had been flirting with her, but she wasn't quite sure, because she didn't know him all that well. She did, however, figure that even if she did know him well she'd find him hard to read.

Tim smirked. "We'll go Dutch. I don't want you gettin' no ideas in that head o' yours."

She laughed and nodded. "Alright, yeah. Not-so-shitty music and good food and cold beer sounds great."

"Great. See you tomorrow," he said, smiling a little as he walked out of the bullpen.


	3. The Cosby's

Maxine had resigned to the lack of privacy that came with her job years ago, when she first signed up. There were random drug tests, Internal Affairs was constantly sending you to the psychologist to ensure that you weren't on the verge of a mental break-down, and the locker rooms were co-ed. But it was times like these, when she had a cute guy to snoop on, that she was grateful for it.

She was on rotation for the night shift that day, which she didn't mind anyway because that meant overtime. But it also provided her ample time to go to Art's office and locate the personnel files. She grabbed Tim's and paused when Raylan's name jumped out at her, file almost as thick as a phone book. He _had_ been a Marshal for almost twenty years. She snagged his too and walked back to her desk, reading them between emails from various databases that requested certain files be put together, or faxes that were sent with reminders for the office to send a marshal to inspect the federal prison in McCalester at some point. But, those emails and faxes were few and far between at 7 PM in a government building, so Maxine had time to read.

She knew very little about Raylan, despite how much he had helped her in Houston when she was just GL-05, hair still damaged from salt water and mostly unable to sleep at night without the noise of a USN cruiser in the background. She just knew he was a good guy - a little bit rough around the edges, and generally distrusting, but a good guy.

She started with Raylan. Twenty-years ago, joined the marshal's service after getting a degree in criminology from UK. While in Glynco he greatly excelled in marksmanship and investigation, was satisfactory in most other areas except for legal training and first aid, which he barely passed. He did his three years of training to reach GL-09 in Central California, before he transferred to Utah, where he was for 7 years (he got married there, because everything he did was documented), then he went to teach firearms at Glynco for two years, went to Houston for one year, and then went to Miami, then he was transferred here to Lexington.

If Maxine did the math, she could easily line up his one year in Houston with her second year there, then she could line up his time in Miami with her transfer to Seattle for almost two years, then to Mobile for less than half a year, then her own transfer to Lexington.

Maxine then went to Tim's file to try her best at lining up his career with hers and Raylan's, and was stunned to find that Tim didn't have much of a file: GL-07 just because of his military service, but he'd only been in the force 10 months, here in Lexington. She blinked, because that was damn crazy.

She looked at the rest of his file. In 2000, November, just after he turned 18, he joined the Army. He became an infantryman, attended Marine Corps Sniper School, and apparently excelled by Marine standards, which was impressive. He volunteered for Special Forces training and became a sniper for the Rangers almost immediately after he got out of training.

He started out with two tours in Iraq, all the way up to Private First Class when the shit in Afghanistan started and he went to war a third time in a whole new country. He bounced between bases for the next two years, bouncing around from Iraq to Afghanistan to - Whoa, he was in Bahrain when she was stationed there. Granted, he was only there for a few hours before he was flown out to Kuwait, but still. He re-enlisted after 5 years, again bouncing around, but this time mainly between Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Kuwait (though there was a stint in Georgia where his platoon was in charge of training Georgian soldiers). By the end of his career, he was a highly decorated sergeant who had refused a promotion to sergeant major _twice_. That was in 2010.

He came home and didn't re-enlist, but instead joined the US Marshals service, likely before he could even shake the sand out of his boots. She'd have to ask him what spurred that decision, but she decided that could wait until she knew Tim a little better.

* * *

"Holy shit, that's Dave Alvin," Tim said, seemingly surprised. Maxine knew just from one look of his face as he sipped at his beer that he really wasn't all that surprised. She looked back up stage as said man was greeting the crowd. She'd never heard of the guy, but when he started to sing, she could see the appeal. He was old school blues, combined with some rock-and-roll and country influences.

It was Saturday night, the night after Maxine totally invaded Tim's privacy, and Raylan's for that matter, and they were in a little joint called Sally's Hitching Post about fifty miles from Lexington.

"You like him?" Maxine asked, genuinely curious. She wouldn't have pegged Tim as a country music fan.

Tim shrugged. "It's hard to not like Dave Alvin. I mean, for the most part, country music isn't my scene. He's one of the few exceptions." He pulled a long drink from his pint. "It's like a rule; you can't be from Kentucky and not like Dave Alvin."

"I wasn't aware of that rule."

"Of course you weren't, you aren't from Kentucky."

"Neither are you!"

"I pay taxes here, thank you."

Maxine snorted and Tim used his habitual threat-assessment sweep of the bar to appreciate just how pretty she looked in the dim lighting of the bar. She wasn't in anything all that outlandish, and she hadn't put much effort into her hair or makeup it seemed, but Tim found himself liking the look she had going, all nonchalant and casual and confident in it.

But as he continued his sweep of the bar, eyeing the rowdy college kids in the corner for a moment, and eyes lingering on the holster on the hip of an elderly man down the bar, he saw something incredibly unsettling: Raylan was there with Winona. Tim was incredibly confused. He knew Raylan had been seeing a woman lately, because Raylan's clothes had spontaneously started smelling like fabric softener and he had started trimming his nails shorter and shaving a bit better. It was subtle things, but all things Tim knew to be a woman's influence.

But he wouldn't have, in a million years, figured that woman to be his ex-wife.

"Holy shit," Tim muttered before he could stop himself.

"What?" Maxine asked, curious now too. She followed his line of sight. Up a set of steps in a raised portion of the bar, at a tall table, was a couple. Maxine almost didn't recognize him without his hat, but he glanced sideways at the stage and she realized almost immediately that it was Raylan. And he was there with a woman she recognized from Houston.

"Is that Raylan and his wife?" Maxine inquired, looking at Tim and not understanding what his problem with it was.

Tim shook his head. "She's his ex-wife. She divorced him when he transferred to Miami and remarried some Realtor here in Lexington."

"Raylan's ex-wife is having an affair with her ex-husband? Doesn't she know that's just gonna bite her in the ass?" Maxine asked, snorting as she took a long drink of her beer. Tim smiled, mainly because he thought she'd go full on 'vagina loyalty' and supported Winona's infidelity. "I mean, she broke it off with Raylan for a reason, right? And if you make a decision, you gotta go balls out and commit. You don't get to back-out of life!"

Tim leaned over and kissed her, right then and there in that bar, their mouths tasting like beer and Dave Alvin crooning about the Harlan county line. He set his glass down on the bar with a "clack" and wrapped both of his free hands around her hips. She was lean and Tim had expected some fat to grab onto when he grabbed her, but he was met mostly with skin and muscle and the underlying pelvic bones. She let out a little muffled noise of shock or passion or pain or something, before she set her own glass down with a "clack" and a "slosh" as some of the beer spilled over the edge. Her arms went around his shoulders, one hand wrapping around the back of his neck and the other holding on to his trap muscle.

Tim coaxed her lips open with his and before he knew it, they were making out like teenagers.

He pulled away after he realized they were probably making some of the patrons uncomfortable. At least they hadn't started making sloppy noises, he figured.

"Damn it, Gutterson," Maxine said, offering up a breathy laugh through kiss-bruised lips. Tim decided he had a new favorite sound. "You're killing me here."

"Rats, you've discovered my master plan," Tim said, a little out of sorts himself.

"You're telling me this was all a plot to kill me? Did Rachel hire you out for wet work?" Maxine wondered how she could sound so normal, so teasing and playful, after Tim had just kissed her senseless. Seriously, this pair of panties? Ruined.

"I can't confirm or deny that question. I have a murderer-client confidentiality agreement."

"How would you have done it?" she asked, almost bouncing with curiosity. "Arsenic in my beer? Route my car exhaust through the A/C? Potassium shot into my blood stream after you seduced me and left me unconscious?"

Tim snickered at how well she thought most of those out. "I was thinking just a nice, old-fashioned bullet to the head." He pressed his middle and index finger to her forehead, thumb pulled back like a hammer that he snapped down to meet his hand with a "boom" sound effect.

"Ballistics," she said, tutting. "Ballistics would get you, Tim. You'd think that as a lawman, you would know such things."

"Damn, you're right. I'll have to rethink my strategy for next time."

" 'Next time?' " Tim just smiled, because they both knew that there would, in fact, be a next time.

* * *

Tim and Maxine made good use of the rest of the night in Maxine's bed, fucking one another into unconsciousness before waking up a moment later to use the bathroom or get some ibuprofen and then going at it again (Repeat until desired level of sexual satiation is reached). Tim hadn't been laid in, what, 4 months? Not since Terri, the 'I-told-you-I'm-divorced-but-I'm-not-really' FBI agent he broke things off with. And, even then, the sex hadn't been that much fun. Sure, Terri had been good, but Maxine had made things light and easy and flirty.

It was actually really ironic, Tim thought. He had pictured Maxine as someone who talked a big game and then been extremely virginal and awkward, but no. This girl was just as casual and confident as she was when she spoke. And, if he was being honest, she was a damn vixen. He had scratch marks down his sides and chest to prove it.

Did he mention she liked to top? Talk about a dream come true.

Tim woke a final time at nearly 5 in the morning. The world outside was just starting to wake if the annoying towhee on Maxine's window was any indication. He wondered if he should leave now, while she was still asleep and cuddled into his side, or if he should wait until _she_ kicked him out. It was the first time in a while he'd felt conflicted about whether or not to get out. The way he saw it, leaving her without an explanation and leaving after she told him to scram were both equally undesirable - equally awkward and sure to make the work day tense.

He reached a hand over, careful not to disturb Maxine, who was sleeping peacefully with her head on his stomach, just below his rib cage, and her arm limp across his hips. Her legs were tangled with his, icy feet pressing against his shins and making his leg hair stand up.

His fingers hit her phone and he grabbed it, checking the time she had the alarm set for: 6:30. She would be asleep for another hour and a half if he didn't wake her as he left. The only reason he decided that he really _did_ need to leave was because he needed a shower and a change of clothes and hair gel and breakfast and coffee. He sat the phone down and Maxine hummed in her sleep, shifting her torso so she was flopped onto her back, bare chest exposed to the world and hair fanning out underneath her head like her own, reddish-blonde rendition of a peacock's tail.

Tim sighed and untangled his feet from her icy ones, sliding out of bed and grabbing his clothes from last night. He figured he could get a cup of coffee here, take a shower, get dressed, and get home to change out of last night's clothes, gel his hair, get some food in his system, and then get his ass to work.

He pulled on his boxers and jeans from last night, padded barefoot down the hall, silent as a hunter to the kitchen, which was just starting to light up with the sunrise. He had to admire Maxine's place - she had herself way more put together after a month of living in Lexington than he did after 10. But, then again, she probably had this whole 'relocation' thing down to a science. His re-locations in the Army had been simple: grab your bags, a photo or something, and get on a plane. No furniture needed, no clothing needed. Civilian relocation? That was a whole different basket of oranges.

He started up a pot of coffee - Maxine bought the good kind of breakfast blend, not the shitty stuff the office did - and searched the cabinets for mugs. He found one in a cabinet just above the pot and poured himself a cup. He let it sit and cool while he silently moved back to Maxine's room to grab his shirt. He paused when he noticed her still spread out over the mattress, breathing slow and even and deep, breasts and feet all exposed to the air.

He walked over and covered her up a bit better, grabbing a blanket they must've knocked to the floor last night to drape over her feet before he went back to the kitchen to have his coffee before he got a shower.

"Well, good morning, sunshine," Raylan greeted with a smile as Tim walked into the office that morning. He had left Maxine's house at almost exactly 6 and managed to get some breakfast and hair gel and a change of clothes from his own apartment before he had to come here. He had texted Maxine at about 6:34 or some shit explaining why he had to leave. She just responded with a sort, laconic:

_**I get it**_

No smiley face, no punctuation, no nothing. Just: 'I get it.' Was she pissed? Was she depressed? Had he hurt her feelings by leaving? Hell, he didn't know!

God, it was too early in the morning to be worrying about problems he probably didn't even have.

But, still, Raylan's greeting had bewildered Tim. Was his worry that evident on his face? Or did he just look shitty and Raylan was being ironic? Tim looked down at himself to check and be sure that his shirt wasn't wrinkled and he didn't have a stain on his pants. He glanced back up to the man about a decade his senior for an explanation.

"Don't try and bullshit me," Raylan said, smirking. "I know the morning-after glow. You pick up a girl in a bar somewhere?"

"Something like that," Tim said, curtly, hoping Raylan would quit this. He didn't particularly like the role-reversal. Usually it was Tim getting under Raylan's skin, and Tim almost - _almost_ - felt some sympathy for the man he constantly badgered.

"Really? Was she about yea tall, long, curly red hair? Pretty as a September peach?"

Tim stared at Raylan through the glass over the top of their cubicles.

"I take it your date with Maxine went well, then," Raylan said, smirk not fading - in fact, Tim thought he saw it get a little bigger. "And don't try to deny it, you smell like girly shampoo."

Tim went to say something. He wasn't sure exactly what he was _going_ to say, anyway, when Art suddenly called for the two of them.

"Raylan! Tim! Get in here!"

_Saved by the Art_, Tim thought, relieved for a second, before his brain kicked into over time. Wait, this could go horribly. Raylan could rat Tim and Maxine out - destroy the possible romance before anything more could build. Tim had no idea what the Marshals Service stance was on relationships between coworkers, but he was sure it wasn't a good one.

Tim could see why the stance would be a negative one: If he started getting feelings for Maxine, getting protective, it could interfere with his job... Hell, it could interfere with her job, too! Maybe he should call this whole thing off before he had the chance to get protective like that.

'And if you make a decision, you gotta go balls out and commit. You don't get to back-out of life!' Maxine's words rang out in Tim's head. Last night, they had just spurred him to make a move. But this morning, they were spurring him to try and keep this whole thing from unraveling for as long as he could.

Tim grabbed Raylan's elbow as he swaggered by, jerking him harshly to a stop. Raylan stumbled, off-balance and confused, giving Tim the universal facial expression for _'what the hell, bro?'_

"Don't tell Art about Maxine and I," Tim pleaded lowly. He was almost tempted to ad 'or I'll start talking about you and Winona' but he figured karma would take care of _that_ soon enough without Tim's help.

"Really, Tim?" Raylan replied, one of his eyebrows arching. "You really think I'd be that stupid?"

It was Tim's turn to give his coworker and incredulous look. "Do you _really_ want me to answer that?"

"You two!" Art barked again, standing now, glaring at them through the glass of the fishbowl. "Hurry up!"

Tim gave Raylan one last serious look before he let the man go and followed him into Art's office, sitting down in the chair furthest from the wall. Tim was relieved when Art didn't shut the door because that meant they weren't in trouble. Not that Tim really had any sort of behavior that would warrant a lecture from Art, but maybe Raylan had done something that had tangled Tim's name up in it.

"I just thought you'd wanna know," Art said, dropping a file onto his cluttered desk. "AUSA determined that the shooting of Jess Timmons was good."

Tim was stony faced. Was there ever really any debate about whether or not that asshole needed to die?

"No surprise there," Raylan commented, echoing Tim's thoughts.

"Hell of a shot," Art complimented, and Tim looked up at his chief. "Did you ever think about what might've happened if you'd missed?"

_There would be a dead woman, dead fetus, dead Jess Timmons, and likely an injured marshal on the scene?_ Tim thought bitterly, kind of offended by what Art was saying.

Tim dropped his hand down from where he was smoothing out his hair. "I can't carry a tune." He felt himself kind of smile as he remembered his drunken attempts at doing so last night and Maxine's laughter. "I don't know how to shoot a basketball, and my handwriting is, uh, barely legible. But I don't _miss_."

Art looked between the two of them, a slow smile creeping onto his face. "All right, that'll do it." Tim and Raylan went to leave, but when Art called Raylan back in to stay a minute, Tim wheeled around, silently begging Raylan not to say anything. Raylan didn't see him, or if he did, he didn't acknowledge Tim's pleading gaze. Unless that throat-clearing Raylan did was him agreeing to Tim's request.

Tim sat down at his desk, somewhat tense. God, he hoped Raylan didn't say anything. He was starting to regret last night, because if anyone at the office found out, he'd probably wind up shipped off to the Juneau office. Maybe Art would have just enough mercy to recommend him for transfer to Guam. Oh, no, wait, Puerto Rico would be a good transfer. Shit, maybe he'd rat himself out just so Art _would_ transfer him to Guam or Puerto Rico.

Tim tilted his head that way in an attempt to hear what they were talking about. He could barely hear anything over the ringing phones in the office until Art's voice rose.

"Two people, out having beers, seeing music?" Tim felt his pulse speed up. Shit, had Raylan ratted him out?

"Let's just forget it," Raylan insisted, headed for the door.

"So you were out with somebody, and Tim happened to be there." Thank God, he was just grilling Raylan... Did Raylan tell him about Winona? Well, he must not have explicitly mentioned it was Winona, because Art said 'somebody.'

"Could we not? Just..." Raylan trailed off. Tim glanced up as the door to the bullpen opened and Maxine walked in.

"I suppose it could be Rachel," Art muttered. "Are you sleeping with Rachel?!" Tim found the idea almost laughable. Maxine approached Tim's desk and he held up a coffee for her, eyes trained on the wall behind her as he kept listening in on their conversation.

"No," Raylan replied.

"I don't guess Ava's looking to spend time with you. And I think I would remember if it was me."

"You done?"

Tim was nearing stitches as he fought to keep his calm. Maxine gave him a questioning look and Tim held up a finger as if to say he'd tell her later, once he caught the rest of the conversation. Maxine just smiled at the look on his face.

"Unless of course, you roofied me," Art pressed. "Did you roofie me, Raylan?"

"Goodbye, Art."

"Was it Maxine? 'Cause you and I both know that you're robbing the cradle there."

"Good_bye_, Art," Raylan pressed. Tim smirked again, because he knew Raylan wasn't sleeping with Maxine.

Tim snickered as Raylan and Art walked by. Maxine approached him soon thereafter. "So, what was that about?"

"Well, Raylan guessed about you and me because I smelled like girly shampoo," Tim said quietly.

"I knew that bottle felt lighter this morning. Thank you for the coffee, by the way."

"No problem." He wondered if she noticed the second blanket. "You might want to get your blood circulation checked out."

"Why's that?"

"Your feet were fucking _glacial_ this morning."

She snickered and Tim sighed, not looking forward to today's workload and simultaneously relieved that his bailing hadn't made things awkward between him and Maxine. "I got to go deliver a subpoena in Versailles, and then some guy in Mount Sterling missed his court-date, so I gotta head down there."

"Yeah, I've got some subpoenas to deal with too, and then I'm on transport detail later."

"Who're you transporting?" Tim asked.

"Guy committed eight counts of grave desecration. I'm bringing him here for his court date."

"Huh. Be careful with that one. Never know what he might _dig_ up."

Maxine stared at him for a second, smiling. "Cute." And then she walked off to go deliver her subpoenas.

She came back in about the same time as Raylan, ready for her prisoner transport, to see the office in chaos. She had taken the stairs up to the office, not too keen on being in an elevator when she'd been in her car all day.

"What's going on?" Raylan asked, walking over to Rachel, who was pouring over her desk with the Chief and Tim nearby.

"Got a call from a receptionist at the halfway house. My brother-in-law Clinton violated parole," Rachel explained.

"Your brother-in-law is on parole?" Raylan asked, pulling that eyebrow-thing he did when he was confused.

"Long story."

Tim jumped in to Rachel's rescue. "Apparently, Clinton beat the shit out of his program manager and took off."

Maxine took the guy's file from Tim, silently assessing his threat. Murder, drugs. Huh.

"We need a team to lock up Nick's school," Rachel cut through Maxine's trance. She glanced up to hear Art say, "And we will, but you're not taking lead on this one."

"But chief," Rachel looked hopeless and dejected. Maxine felt for her. She could understand how Rachel thought it was unfair. Raylan got to deal with personal cases all the time, but the instant _she_ wanted to go and deal with something close to her, it was under a glass case and put just out of reach.

Maxine's prisoner transport had to be handled, and it took about two hours to collect him and bring him to the court house. She was just in time to get back in the elevator with Rachel and her nephew Nick. He was a smart kid, that much Maxine could tell just from his eyes. But there was some sadness there too. He was quiet after she introduced herself, but the moment he was through the bullpen door, he made a bee-line for Tim.

"Tim!" he greeted, excitedly.

"Hey, squirt," Tim greeted, smiling (a genuine smile, teeth and everything) at Nick. "Happy birthday."

"You got a present for me?"

"Your present is that I don't wrestle you to the ground right here and embarrass you in front of everybody."

Maxine smiled at the two of them and Tim and Nick conversed for a while quietly. Rachel turned to ask Maxine a question and then noticed her gaze on Tim and Nick.

"Nick loves Tim. Back when Tim was a newbie here, I invited him to my mom's for Sunday dinner. Nick took a shine to him - so did my mom," Rachel told her, even though Maxine hadn't asked.

"It's hard to imagine why," Maxine joked. Rachel looked at Maxine, nodding and giving a disbelieving, 'Mm-hm.' Maxine quickly realized: Rachel knew.

"Rachel. Don't tell anyone." Maxine's voice was stern, but she knew if Rachel did tell, she wouldn't really do anything about.

"Don't tell anyone what?" Rachel asked innocently.

"Rachel..."

"I won't. Okay? I just want you to know I think you're in this a little early. You're new to town, you're lonely, and Tim is the only person you've felt like you've connected with. I just want you to be prepared that it might blow up in your face. And if it doesn't, then good for you two."

Maxine was offended, but she tried not to be. She understood Rachel's stance. You were supposed to form friendships and relationships when you _didn't_ need them, so they would be genuine. There wasn't much conversation afterwards, just Tim, Rachel, and Maxine trying to track down where Nick's dad might be, with bursts of Nick asking Tim what sort of criminal he thought Rachel would marry.

"Frauds," Maxine piped up. "Sugar daddies. What more can a girl ask for?"

Rachel snorted. "How about a clean record and no tattoos?"

"That's gonna be hard to find in a federal criminal database," Tim commented, causing Nick and Maxine to laugh. Tim smiled, glancing up at Rachel as if to say 'tell me I'm wrong.'

Rachel and Raylan had disappeared to check on Rachel's mother who was, at the moment, unreachable. That left Tim to entertain Nick while Maxine attempted to get the paperwork for that last transport done, as well as confirm that she had delivered those subpoenas. Nick had decided, though, that Tim too familiar and uninteresting to be worthy of his attention. Maxine was, in Nick's eyes, shiny and unfamiliar and _new_. So, he stationed himself beside her desk and talked.

"You're really pretty," he started out with.

Maxine laughed. "Thank you. I'm a little old for you, though."

"You know, today's my birthday."

"I know. But I'm still too old for you."

"How old are you?"

"I'm twenty-nine."

"That's only seventeen years of difference."

"Yeah, but by the time you're eighteen, I'll be forty-seven."

"And I bet you'll still be pretty!"

Maxine heard Tim snort over from his desk and she looked up to glare at him. What? He didn't think she'd still be pretty at 47? She'd be a little saggy, for sure, but she'd probably still be bangable. Like Meryl Streep or Julie Andrews. And she knew Raylan, nearing his 50s, still managed to get laid on a fairly regular basis.

"You got something to say, Gutterson?" she demanded as her phone rang. Tim shook his head and Maxine turned to look at the number, not recognizing the number but recognizing the Lexington area code. She thought there was a chance it could be Rachel's brother-in-law, Clinton, so she pulled up the triangulation program on her computer before she picked up the phone.

"Hello, US Marshals Service. This is US Deputy Marshal Maxine O'Nan in Lexington, how may I direct your call today?" she said, giving Tim a look that said 'what the hell am I even doing?' What _was_ she doing? She was just giving away her name and location over the phone on the off chance the caller was Clinton?

_"Where's Rachel?"_ he demanded.

"US Deputy Marshal Brooks is not in the office at the present moment," she said, purposely avoiding the contraction 'isn't' just to make the sentence longer. "I can, however, take a message for you. If you'd like."

_"Tell her I want to make a deal."_

"What sort of deal, sir?"

He was silent for a moment and she thought she lost him, so she kept talking.

"Just so I can be specific in my memo."

_"I just want to see my son."_

"And your son's name is...?"

_"Nick."_

"And who do I say is asking for this deal?"

_"Her brother-in-law_." And the line clicked dead. Maxine swore when she noticed the program hadn't fully calculated his location. The call had been shorter than two minutes. She had a general area in the downtown Lexington area, but that was a whole lot of heavily trafficked, heavily populated areas. There were too many possibilities to narrow down without alerting Clinton to their intentions.

Tim had joined her at her desk, swearing when he saw her computer screen and realized the same problem she had. He pulled out his phone.

"I'll try to reach Rachel," he told her. "You give Raylan a call."

"And tell him what? We don't even know where he is!"

"Well, we -"

"Hey," Nick said, voice cutting through the tension like a snow plow. "That's Billy the Kidzone!" He got some odd looks and he smiled sheepishly as he sat back down in his chair and looked at his hands. "I just used to like it there. Mom would take me there for my birthday when I was little."

Maxine and Tim tore their gaze away from the embarrassed twelve year old, both registering the implication at the same time. They just found Clinton's location.

Maxine called the restaurant as Tim, Rachel, and Raylan made their way to the downtown area. Maxine couldn't just leave Nick unattended with an escaped parolee on some sort of demented mission to find him, so she took him down to the cafeteria for lunch. The duo sat where Maxine could have her back to a wall and could watch the flow of traffic. Nick seemed used to not being able to have the seat against the wall, and Maxine assumed it was because Rachel had the same habit.

"Aren't you going to ask?"

"Ask what?" Maxine asked, confused by the question coming out of the boy's mouth. She was in the middle of a mouthful of chicken cesar salad when he spoke, and she had to cover her mouth with her hand to prevent food from flying across the table.

"Why my dad went to jail," he replied. He looked a little insecure and upset, so Maxine swallowed her half-chewed mouthful and chased it with a swig of water before saying, "Well, do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. "Not really."

"Then I won't ask."

"People usually ask anyway."

"People are dicks."

Nick giggled at the look on Maxine's face. Like he'd never heard the word 'dicks' before. He was a middle schooler, after all. Every day people were dropping the f-bomb and trying to act mature by being vulgar like that.

"Look, Nick," Maxine said, voice kind of ringing with the underlying theme of 'I understand.' "I had a parent who wasn't exactly the best person. Granted, my mom never killed anyone, but..." She shrugged. "I understand. Hell, everyone can understand. No one's family is perfect. People just like to pick on the kid who has the family that isn't perfect and it's plain to see. It makes them feel better about their own home lives."

"It sucks."

"I know." And she did. "You got a phone?"

"Duh."

"I'll give you my phone number, and any time you need to talk, I'm there, alright? I know, it's not the manly thing to do: Talking about your problems is supposed to be this big thing. But I'm telling you, Nick, a horse can't outrun it's own tail." He stared at her, not really sure what she meant.

"If you need to talk, or if you need someone to bail you out of jail, or if you need someone to buy you an RC helicopter so you can play a prank on the school bully -" That got Nick to smile and Maxine smiled back. "I'm there when your Aunt Rachel can't be, alright?"

He nodded, smiling at the new addition to his support system, and handed over his phone for Maxine to input her number.

"_We've got Clinton in holding,"_ Tim said over the phone. Maxine and Nick were still in the cafeteria. With a bit of flirting, Maxine had convinced one of the guys working the lunch line to whip up a batch of cupcakes for the kid, who had been denied any semblance of a normal birthday. They were in the middle of the batch of cupcakes now, down to six of the twelve. _"Rachel wants you to bring Nick up to talk to his dad._"

"Sure, I'll bring him up once he finishes his cupcake."

_"Cupcakes? Ask him to save me one."_

Maxine snorted. Tim and his bottomless stomach.

"Nick," she said after she hung up. "Let's take these to go. Rachel and them are back in the office."

"Oh, alright," Nick said, finishing up that one cupcake. Maxine picked up the Styrofoam box with the last six cupcakes in it and escorted Nick up to the office. Once inside, just before she passed him off to Rachel, she stooped down and gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek. "Happy birthday," she said, giving him a hug. He hugged her back and then let her go to join his aunt as they walked towards the holding cell.

Maxine walked over to Tim's desk, which said man was seated on. She popped open the box and offered up the cupcakes as she sighed. Tim took one of the cupcakes and stuffed it into his mouth.

"I need such a strong drink," she muttered, thinking of all the childhood problems Nick had her remembering.

"Tell me about it," Tim replied through a mouthful of icing and red velvet.

That strong drink came around 7 o'clock, when most of the sun's rays were blocked from the courthouse windows by Lexington's skyline. Maxine, Raylan, and Tim were all snugly installed on the couch, while Rachel was seated in one of the chairs near Art's desk. Their boss was doling out equal portions of bourbon into each glass. It was silent and contemplative as he did so, like watching an ancient tea ceremony.

Art passed out glasses and stood behind his desk. It was like that ended the ceremony and the silence. Rachel began to speak.

"When I was Nick's age, before my father's cancer," Rachel spoke, "I thought we were the Cosbys. My parents had good jobs, there was a feast on the table after church on Sundays. Shawnee and I would ride our Huffys around the neighborhood. We had good hair, and made straight A's. Except, as my mother reminds me... that wasn't reality. The jobs weren't all that good, and my father was never a happy man even before he got sick. And Shawnee was smoking pot at 9 and running away to smoke heroin at 15." Rachel took a big gulp of her bourbon at that point.

Raylan spoke. "I never bore any illusions my family was the Cosbys."

Art commented quickly, "Your family wasn't funny." Maxine smiled a little at that, admiring the way Art tried to air out the tension in the room. But the attempt was futile: With this many bad childhoods in one room, any and all attempts at lightening the mood were useless.

"At least you got to shoot your father," Tim commented, and Maxine thought he sounded rather bitter. "Mine had the nerve to die before I got back from Basic with skills and a loaded weapon."

"You didn't miss much. I thought it was gonna be way more fun than it was."

It was silent for a moment.

Maxine broke it. "When I was nine, my mom started calling me fat. I mean, she was right, and it sounds pretty girly but still. When you're nine that sort of shit really embeds itself in your brain." She took a big gulp of whiskey and refrained from telling the rest of the story, though it was plain to everyone else in the room that there was more to it. And boy was there; her descent into extreme diets at ten, and bulimia at 12. She never had her period, and she started fainting. It wasn't until the school nurse contacted CPS that she got any sort of help. That help came from the government paid therapy sessions. She knew there was nothing wrong with her, but getting fed properly and getting a self-esteem boost were practically out of the question in foster homes where she was basically the house slave, working for table scraps.


	4. It Was Arabic

**Can I just say, I both love and hate how little we get of Tim's background? It's just enough to give you something to chew on, but there isn't nearly enough there to tell you what drives him. But the good part about this mystery is that it gives sad little Tim-girls like me room to play with his history and his family and his hometown and such. I just thought I should say that, even though it's really not important. I'm just too lazy to stop myself...**

**Anyway, this chapter plays off that scene when Tim is doing all those favors for Raylan and Art asks someone to check in with the girlfriend from the Hopkins case.**

**Heh.**

* * *

Tim sighed as he rolled out of his bed that morning. He had today off, thanks to that week's schedule rotation, which left him with the night shift the next day. Still, he couldn't sleep past 6:30 in the morning. It didn't matter if he went to bed at 4 in the morning, he would wake up at 6:30 on the dot, or some time before. Tim stood and stretched, clad only in boxers and a little reluctant to move from his carpeted bedroom to the wooden floor of the hallway. His back muscles popped and stretched, his arm muscles did too. He shook out his legs, rolled his ankles, and walked over to the window, noticing the crisp air and falling leaves, but the fairly sunny sky.

It would be a good day for a run.

He hadn't been running just for the hell of it in a while. He'd ran to keep in shape for Glynco, he'd ran to stay alive, and he'd ran to chase down fugitives. But he hadn't been running just to feel the wind in his face and the concrete under his feet in a long while.

He went into his living room and started pilfering through boxes. You wouldn't know he was planning on being here in Lexington for another two years by the state of his apartment. Furniture he ordered online or bought disassembled at Walmart or Target was still in the boxes, laid up against the walls, boxes of his old possessions from before he went off to war (which his brother Steven had held for him because his other brother, Martin, moved a lot) sat unpacked, but opened and pilfered through, all around the apartment.

It was a simple set up: Kitchenette, living room, bathroom, bedroom, closet. He much preferred Maxine's place. Her house wasn't that much larger - at least, he didn't think it was. It was just homier and brighter and it looked like someone actually lived there. Tim's place felt clinical and temporary, like a motel room.

"Ah!" he said, victorious, as he found the last pair of running shoes he ever bought. They were old and most likely out of style because he _had_ bought them back in 2000, but they were in his size and if he remembered right, they supported his stride well. He made his way over to his bedroom and grabbed socks, underwear, sweats (because it _was_ a little nippy out) and his Army t-shirt. He yanked it all on and slipped on the old shoes, lacing them up tight.

Yeah, those'd work great.

He figured he should eat and hydrate first, and walked into the kitchen. He filled up a glass of water and drank it as he ate an orange. He then figured he needed to wait to digest so he didn't vomit on his run and started looking for his iPod. He found it in his dresser drawer, next to the box of Trojans and a spare key to his car. He knew he had an arm band for that thing somewhere, and by the time he found it, the clock was reading 9 in the morning.

He was out the door, bouncing down the apartment building's stairs while he shook out his arms and tried to get himself pumped up.

He walked out the lobby and looked at the street, wondering which way to go. Right or left?

He played a quick game of Eenie Meenie and wound up with right. So, he turned right and went down the street at a steady pace, Dave Alvin's voice rumbling in his ears.

* * *

Maxine hated days in the office when someone was missing. It wasn't like they had happened often in the few weeks she'd been in Lexington, but when they did, they were a little disconcerting. It was a small office, and everyone was used to strange workloads, but really, the strangeness came when everyone else in the office decided to get a personality.

When Raylan was gone, everyone tried to be just as overconfident and rude. When Rachel was gone, the entire office simultaneously decided to put their noses to the grindstone. But with Tim gone?

The damn office had turned into a playground. Garcia, the guy with the desk just across from Maxine's, next to the copier and the coffee pot, also the guy Maxine referred to as The Keeper of the Menus, had made a crossbow out of rubber bands, a binder clip, and some pencils. He was currently using said cross bow to fire paper wads across the walkway at Nelson and Reynolds, who were arguing over whether or not a girl's hotness coincided directly with her craziness.

Maxine wanted to roll her eyes at the argument and tell them that there was no point in arguing. Anybody who had ever taken a statistics class knew that correlation did not directly mean a cause-and-effect function. God.

Maxine was ultimately relieved when an email came with a warrant for the arrest of a man in Bluegrass Station. He was cashing in the pension check of his long-dead uncle. She made the necessary phone calls, first. To put a stop to said pension checks. Then, she stood, grabbed her coat, and turned to find someone to go with her. Despite how often Raylan liked to go off on his own, it was protocol to always have someone with you.

She didn't know Garcia that well, and she wasn't sure she wanted to be in a car with him for an hour. Nelson was kind of scarily bland. Like, he had so little personality Maxine was pretty sure that he would be the one person in the office to kill someone and then wear their skin as pajamas. Rachel was busy, and Raylan was down in Harlan or something (she just always assumed that was where he went when he wasn't in the office).

"Reynolds!" she called, whistling to catch his attention. Reynolds' head snapped up and he caught one of Garcia's crossbow-propelled paper wads in the face. "Let's go!" she ordered.

"Where are we going?" he asked, grabbing his jacket and wallet and keys, joining her at the door.

"Bluegrass Station. A guy's been cashing in the pension checks for his long-dead uncle. I've already called to put a stop to the checks, but we gotta go and see if we can't find the uncle's place and see who's been grabbing the mail."

"Alright. Well, when we get there, we should start with the neighbors, right?"

"Naturally."

Maxine sighed from the passenger seat of Reynold's car. She had been a little miffed that he suggested they take his car, but not because she didn't like Reynolds' Chrysler, merely because she didn't like being the passenger. Being the passenger meant forfeiting control of the destination and that didn't sit well with her.

Reynolds slid back into the driver's seat, huffing. "Well, Mrs. Schumacher was no help. Said someone _had_ been picking up the mail, but she didn't know who. The guy never had any kids of his own, yadda yadda."

"So, nothing we didn't already know?"

"Exactly."

Maxine let out another heavy sigh, this time with the word "fuck" thrown in there for effect.

"Yeah, pretty much," Reynolds sighed. "So, we wait."

And wait they did.

* * *

Tim had never felt better. He had ran a ten mile loop around the city over the course of an hour and fifteen minutes. He was drenched in sweat and his legs kind of ached, but that went away when he stretched and got himself a bottle of water at a gas station. His run had been interspersed with random little desires to jump certain things that were hurdle-height, like garbage cans and benches and things like that.

He felt like a kid again, sprinting at something top speed, only to sail over it and keep going.

God, it was a rush. Nothing like the rush of a nice shot from a rifle, but it was a rush nonetheless.

Tim, invigorated by his run, decided that he should get unpacked as he entered his apartment. So, he started with the furniture. It didn't take him long to get a bookshelf, coffee table, desk, and swivel chair set up in the living room. After that, he had some bar stools to assemble and put near the kitchen island. By then, all he had left were the boxes his brother had mailed him.

He began unpacking. High school photos and year books? Tim grimaced at them and decided he didn't need them, so he found a smaller box from his furniture and deposited them in there, stuffing them into his bedroom closet.

_Oklahoma Track and Field Championships, Runner-Up, Men's 300m Hurdles, 2000._ The trophy had been near the bottom of a box, and he held it up. It was dusty, and the metal plaque was kind of tarnished from years of sitting in storage back in Tulsa.

That had been his worst performance of his life. He had gotten the shit beaten out of him the night before, been bloodied and bruised, and had shown up with a shiner and a limp and a busted lip. His coach had been furious, convinced he'd gotten into a fight partying the night before. Tim didn't have the heart to tell his coach that it was his father that caused the injuries. Tim barely had enough energy for the race, and had started out in dead last. But he covered the distance between hurdles, barely clearing most of the jumps. In the end, it was sheer force of will that propelled him out of third place and into second.

He didn't remember getting a rush that race. He didn't remember being thrilled to be the second best in the state. Nah, what Tim remembered most was the pain in his knee and the recruitment office he saw down the street.

He shook his head to clear it of the memories, staring at the trophy. Should he display it or hide it? He didn't really know. Was the memory good or bad? That _was_ the day he signed up for the Army. But it was also the day he decided that if he got the chance, he'd kill his father.

He figured he could put it back in the box and decide on whether or not to display it later.

* * *

"I'm just saying, I've always thought Tim was gay."

"Well, he might be," Maxine replied, shrugging. "What business is it of yours if he digs guys or girls? Or both?"

"It'd just be surprising. Imagine finding out the office's resident bad-ass mother fucker is _gay_."

Maxine rolled her eyes, starting to get irritated with the guy in the driver's seat. "Reynolds, shut up."

"Like, how do you think that went over in the Rangers?"

"Don't ask, don't tell."

"I thought they were trying to repeal that."

"Look, Reynolds, it is literally taking every fiber of my being not to hit you in the nose. Just shut up for five minutes, please." Reynolds' jaw snapped shut and Maxine heard his teeth click together.

"I don't think the guys in Tim's platoon or whatever it's called would've cared that much," Maxine said after counting to ten in Arabic. "I mean, he's a good guy and a good shot and I'm sure he was a great soldier. They probably would've just said, 'oh, okay, cool' if he came out and gone on. Which is what you should do. It's not like his being gay affects you negatively. So what? He finds guys hot. What's the big deal?"

"It would be weird if he thought _I_ was hot."

"Take it as a fucking compliment! Someone on the planet is attracted to you, treat it like the miracle it is."

"You're way more hostile than I thought you'd be."

"You're a bigger idiot than I thought you'd be," Maxine said icily. That was when a car, a beige Escalade, pulled up the road from behind them. They stayed at the curb, watching the car as it pulled up to the mailbox at the uncle's house and a woman leaned out, grabbed the mail, and tucked herself back into the car. She sat for a moment, presumably flicking through the mail, and then pulled a U-turn to drive back the way she came.

As she turned, Reynolds started the car and when the Escalade got to the end of the street, he pulled his own U-turn and followed. They stayed a safe distance back and tailed the car. The car made several twists and turns as the Escalade drove through an older side of town. Reynolds never lost sight of her, as far ahead as she might've gotten, but then they wound up at a red light two blocks away when the Escalade made a turn to the left. When they turned left, they discovered they had lost the target. Maxine and Reynolds started scanning every alley and street for the car. Then, Maxine found it.

"Turn right!" she ordered. He did. It was sudden, and he almost ran over a dog, but he wound up on the same street as the fugitive's car.

Suddenly, the door of the Escalade opened and a woman in her early to mid thirties bailed out, dark hair and not necessarily fat, but not lean. She sure could run though. Maxine bailed out and sprinted after her.

"US MARSHALS!" she hollered, running down the street. "STOP WHERE YOU ARE!"

Oh, yeah, she totally listened. The woman kept going, skidding and falling but scraping herself up as she ran for an alleyway. Maxine used her slip to her advantage, and she could hear Reynolds on his feet behind her. The fugitive had started climbing a fire escape, so Maxine made a motion for Reynolds to follow from the ground and she followed the lady up the ladders and stairs and walkways.

"US MARSHALS, FREEZE!" she demanded, _way_ more authoritative this time. She finally did once she realized the door to the stairwell wasn't going to open. She sighed and laced her hands behind her head.

Maxine went to cuff her and wondered just how much other legal troubles this girl had to flee arrest.

"Anthony Hopkins," Reynolds spoke as they stood in the conference room, the girl cuffed in one of the chairs and silent. "Nephew to Tristan Hopkins and your boyfriend. You and he have been cashing in the old man's pension checks for the past fourteen months. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"So, if that's all you've done, why did you flee arrest?"

She didn't reply. She stared at the cuffs instead.

"Okay. Don't say anything, that's cool," Maxine said sarcastically, rolling her eyes as she stared at her nails. She and Reynolds were playing Bad Cop-Bad Cop. Reynolds was in-your-face Bad Cop, a role he played rather well despite being such a moron, and Maxine was cold-and-passive Bad Cop. She could play any role she needed to in order to get information. She could flirt, she could joke, she could be kind and empathetic, she could not give a shit, or she could be damn terrifying. But with Reynolds doing the 'damn terrifying' thing, she went with the second best option.

"I'm just saying," Maxine drawled, channeling her inner Tim Gutterson, "if you don't help us, we can't help you. I mean, if you cooperate, that'll look a whole lot better to Judge Reardon. You know, I heard he once gave a guy 10 years, no parole, for possession with intent."

Ten years was the maximum sentence in Kentucky for possession of a firearm with intent to cause violence, but the no parole part tacked onto the end had really stirred up some controversy.

"Did that guy cooperate?" the lady asked, glaring at Maxine.

Maxine shrugged. "Dunno. Didn't read the report that well."

Reynolds spoke once more. "Tell us what you did... You do know the Marshals Service doesn't investigate narcotics, right?"

"I don't do drugs. I don't deal 'em either."

"Then what?!" Reynolds demanded, smacking his fist on the conference room table. Maxine broke her nonchalant facade to stare at Reynolds. He looked genuinely pissed. She nearly went to call the USMS psychiatrist, because obviously Reynolds had mood swings someone needed to know about.

"I'm a witness!" she shouted, just as shocked by Reynolds' outburst as Maxine. Maxine stared at Reynolds. "Well, I mean, not _me_. But my boyfriend, Jack. He's a witness. From New York? And, anyway, he's been getting these phone calls and I saw that you guys were tailing me and since I was in his car I thought 'oh shit, these guys are after him.' "

"We identified ourselves," Reynolds said, confused.

"We could've been lying," Maxine said just at the exact same moment the girlfriend shouted "You could've been lying!"

"Fair point," Reynolds conceded. "Phone calls? What have these phone calls been saying?"

"It's some number from New York. Jack never answers, and they never leave a message, but it's a New York area code. He's been real jumpy since they all started."

Maxine and Reynolds exchanged looks. This didn't bode well.

* * *

Tim got a text from Steve at around 2 PM.

**_Steve Walters 2:03 PM: hey asshole_ **

Steve and Tim had served together briefly in Bahrain together. Steve was a Marine, but despite that, the two of them had really hit it off. Tim figured it was because Steve was his polar opposite, so damn cheerful and impulsive. But Steve and Tim shared a sense of humor and they both loved to pass the time on base by being assholes and reading.

**_Tim Gutterson 2:03 PM: quoting your wife or did you just think that one up?_**

**_Steve Walters 2:04 PM: well damn. I was gonna invite you drinking with me tonight _**

**_Steve Walters 2:04 PM: but if you're gonna be that bitchy about it..._**

**_Tim Gutterson 2:05 PM: i take back everything I said_**

Tim waited. Usually after a conversation like that, Steve would let him know which bar in which city to be at and what time, but something must've been holding him up. Tim huffed, staring at the TV. Daytime television was fucking stupid. Like, what was _so_ distinctive about having a Gypsy wedding in America that they had to warrant the new title? And what was the deal with the Duggars? 19 kids? They had a fucking football team right there.

_**Steve Walters 2:24 PM: be at yvette's at 6**_

_**Steve Walters 2:25 PM: bring a boyfriend if you've finally got one**_

Tim huffed at the insinuation, but decided to play off of it, just to seem casual.

_**Tim Gutterson 2:25 PM: I thought we were exclusive, steve**_

_**Tim Gutterson 2:25 PM: Does that mean you've been sleeping with other men behind my back?**_

_**Steve Walters 2:25 PM: yes tim yes it does**_

_**Tim Gutterson 2:26 PM: then you're on the couch tonight**_

_**Steve Walters 2:26 PM: does that mean I can't have any of your sweet ass tonight?**_

_**Tim Gutterson 2:26 PM: dude duh that's the point**_

* * *

Maxine and Reynolds stood outside Anthony Hopkins' apartment. Anthony Hopkins was his birth name, but since he'd entered WITSEC, he was Ryan Templer. They found his name on the list and hit the buzzer for his room.

The buzzer crackled to life. _"Yeah?"_

"Delivery for Templer," Reynolds said disinterestedly. He played the part of bored mailman rather well.

_"Come on in_." There was a click as the main door unlocked and the two marshals walked inside and over to the elevator. It was one of the old fashioned contraptions, complete with two sliding metal grates for doors and a dial that ticked off the floor numbers as you passed them and - best of all - you could see the bricks around you moving.

"I hate this thing," Reynolds muttered, watching the bricks move nervously through the metal cage. Maxine smiled. It always warmed her heart to see grown men shaking in their boots.

"Really? I think it's pretty cool."

Thankfully for Reynolds, the elevator came to a stop on the 7th floor. Maxine jerked back the first grate and Reynolds grabbed the second. They exited and shut the grates back before heading down the hall to room 705. Maxine rapped on the door and they heard footsteps before the sound of the door unlocking.

The door swung inward to reveal Anthony Hopkins. Maxine had pulled up his photo before they showed up, but she was still unprepared for how intensely pretty this man was. He was scruffy at the moment, but he had a strong jaw and straight nose and cleft chin. He looked like a fucking sculpture, really.

"You don't look like mailmen," he said, eyes narrowing.

Maxine pulled her badge out from around her neck while Reynolds pulled his out of his coat pocket. "US Marshals," he said. "We're here to talk to you about a couple of things."

"Oh. Come on in then."

They entered the apartment, which smelled like chai tea and cigarettes and moth balls. Maxine got the feeling Anthony Hopkins was a bit of a hipster. She also didn't think he knew he was committing any wrong by the way he just let them into the apartment like that.

"So, what's going on?" he asked as he walked into his kitchen and picked up a still-smoldering cigarette from an ash tray. "I just talked to Nichols a few days ago."

"Did you tell Nichols you were cashing your uncle's pension check?" Maxine demanded casually, looking around the apartment. It was nice, and she figured rent would be cheap for being in such an industrial side of town. She should suggest to Tim that he get a place here. The halls were a little narrow, but the main areas were nice and spacious and there was still that fucking awesome elevator to consider.

"Fuck," Jack hissed, rubbing his forehead.

"Yep. That's our jurisdiction," Reynolds said. "So, we've got to bring you in for that. But we're also here to talk about some phone calls your girlfriend said you've been getting."

"You talked to Lydia?"

"She _was_ the one we arrested for mail fraud," Maxine told the handsome man with the cool apartment.

"Fuck!"

* * *

"And then, this idiot decides that he wants a tattoo," Steve said, laughing as he explained to his wife the origin of Tim's chest tattoo. "And fucking Pirate Pete tells him there was some pirate with a flag that was just an arm with a sword and it meant 'we're ready to kill.' We were all plastered at the time -"

"Which is hard to imagine, I know," Tim said, rolling his eyes and winking at Patricia. Patricia was a cool woman, Tim had decided. She was friendly, but not flirty, and kind of mother-hen-ish to all of Steve's military buddies, which were consequently Tim's military buddies. Tim had seen her handle Steve's fits of rage and his nervous twitches like she was calming a spooked dog. It was easy for her, and Tim wondered if she took a class on how to be that calming.

Patricia apparently found Tim's comment charming, because she laughed.

Steve ignored the whole thing or he was too drunk to notice it because he was still telling the story. "- And Tim's like 'who's ready to kill?! Hooah!' And Pirate Pete finds a picture of the flag and prints if off and we all leave base and storm into this tattoo parlor in the middle of fucking Manama. And Tim just slaps this picture down in front of the tattoo artist and says, in _the_ most fluent, drunken Arabic I have ever heard, 'I want this on my chest.' "

Tim remembered going and telling the tattoo artist that, but he hadn't recalled doing it in Arabic. "Dude, are you sure that was Arabic? I think I was just slurring my English really bad."

Patricia giggled as Steve insisted: "No! It was Arabic! You said, clearly, '-" And then Steve launched into the most flawless string of drunken Arabic that _Tim_ had ever heard. Tim laughed at his friend, unable to contain himself.


	5. Too Late

Other than the Hopkins case and prison inspection and an incident involving a girl named Loretta McCready and the bomb threat/sniper threat on the court house, Maxine had been the proud owner of a fairly dull week. She had been incredibly grateful for the slight reprieve, but, of course, fate just so had it that on her night shift that week, something happened. She was at her desk, reading _Marley & Me_ when the phone rang. She recognized it as Raylan's number, so she picked it up and said:

"What sort of trouble did you get yourself into this time?"

Raylan, however, was not amused. "Two guys just tried to kill Winona and I on our way back to my place. I need you to get Art."

Maxine blinked, quickly realizing that her statement was now rude and horrible. She just told him she'd comply and started making phone calls.

The office was soon bustling with activity: State troopers, FBI, and, according to Garcia, Army CID were all involved. The marshals had basically become the errand boys for the two acronyms that had waltzed in and taken over the office. Maxine wasn't happy about it, but she didn't really have a say. Shit really started to come down after Raylan positively ID'd the two men he killed as two former soldiers. They needed names, they needed service records, they needed criminal records, they needed personal information, they needed lists of acquaintances. Anything that indicated who they might be working for was to be handed over ASAP.

Maxine was in the middle of sending one of the men's service records to the printer when the doors slammed open. In stormed a rather angry looking man Maxine thought she recognized from a billboard. Winona, who was seated at Raylan's desk, looked like she recognized him a little more personally. It dawned on Maxine that this was her ex-husband or soon-to-be-ex-husband or something. He was screaming, red-faced, and demanding to see his wife.

Gary stormed up to Winona and Raylan came out of the conference room shortly thereafter, obviously nervous to leave Winona alone around Gary. Maxine and Rachel had joined in beside Winona and Gary in case the situation got out of hand.

"Well, if it isn't the man of the hour!" Gary hollered. Maxine had a flashback to her mom attempting to be a decent human being and dragging her to church. Gary reminded her of the preacher, who shouted and walked up and down the pews, waving his arms as he yelled like he was trying to fight off an invisible swarm of bees.

"Gary," Raylan replied, swaggering over to the shorter man. The reply, though short, was brimming with the promise of consequences - a warning without the words.

"What's the matter, Raylan? You think it might make you feel better to beat me into the floor?"

"I think it might be worth a shot," Raylan replied, slamming his mug on the table and approaching Gary. Tim and Maxine both stepped in a little closer, ready to stop a fight in case any punches were thrown. Tim gave her a worried look, but Maxine just raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to say something. She dealt with more volatile situations than this one almost daily, and he chose _now_ to worry about it?

"All right, why don't you two just cut the shit right now?" Winona ordered, a hand poised in front of each of their chests.

"Oh, yeah, another county heard from!" Gary exclaimed. Maxine felt her eyebrows furrow closer together. What the hell did that even _mean_? "I thought this would be, like, your dream come true; seeing the two of us square off to fight for your honor."

"All due respect, Gary, but I don't think it would be much of a square-off," Maxine muttered lowly. Tim apparently heard it because he nodded a little, agreeing. Gary stepped closer to Raylan and Tim didn't hesitate to get in between them. He was kind of unimpressive next to Raylan, and he was definitely scrawnier than Gary, but he was giving them both looks like he was just daring them to try something.

"I'd just like to talk to him," Raylan insisted.

Tim backed up after seeing the look in Raylan's eyes, but when Gary blew up, Maxine's hand shot back to her handcuffs on her belt. She would not hesitate to arrest him for assaulting a federal officer.

"SHE IS STILL MY WIFE, I CAN PROTECT HER, ALRIGHT?!" Gary looked like a man possessed. "The first step is to keep her the hell away from you!"

"Will you stop talking about me like I'm not in the room?!" Winona demanded. Maxine had, honestly, in all the excitement, forgotten about the woman.

"Seriously, how much is enough?" Gary demanded, turning his frustration to his ex-wife.

Maxine, deciding that there wouldn't be a fist fight any time soon, leaned back against Raylan's desk, and waited. From what she could tell, his train wreck was more shocking than it was deadly. Winona was doing good at defusing the situation until Raylan made the first shove. Maxine shot to her feet, realizing her train-wreck assessment was wrong.

Gary lunged at Raylan and Tim grabbed him by a shirt sleeve, shoving him back with a warning "HEY!" while Maxine held Raylan back.

She let him go when Gary and Rachel finally made their exit to the elevator. She had to pause to admire Tim's authority as he warned Gary multiple times to "Walk. _Walk_."

She didn't know how he and Raylan managed to pack such a threat into a single word. Raylan's "Gary" and Tim's "_Walk_" had been so simple, but so powerful. She was going to have to sign up for a seminar or something on how to be threateningly laconic. She dismissed the idea when she realized she wouldn't do so well after all; she liked to talk too much.

* * *

"You sure you don't want my sleeping bag?"

Maxine snorted. "Tim, it's fine." She grabbed one of Raylan's pillows off the bed and dropped it onto the floor at the foot. Tim was on Raylan's other side, or he would be, so Raylan had risk waking the both of them up if he wanted to sneak out.

"I can call the desk and get you a cot," Raylan offered.

"Guys, really. I'm not going to break because I slept on the floor."

That was true, but that didn't mean she slept well. She woke almost every 30 minutes, unsettled by the silence. The highway noises would lull her to sleep, then they'd stop for a few minutes and she'd be wide awake on the uncomfortable floor, staring at the ceiling and, in her head, pretending to navigate a ship. Frame numbers and deck numbers and compartment letters flew through her head in the silence, and she eventually wound up asleep again... Until the next time the highway decided to have a lazy moment and no traffic.

At 5 AM, when the blue-ish gray light of dawn started to filter in Raylan's window, Maxine had decided that she had enough. She snagged Tim's keys off the table and left the room, barefoot and in pajamas. She was sure she scared the shit out of the girl at the McDonald's window with her appearance, but she couldn't really bring herself to give a shit until she finished her coffee.

She pulled back into the motel and walked into Raylan's room. Raylan was still asleep, and Tim's sleeping bag was rolled up. She glanced over at the bathroom, where the door was closed. Maxine really considered just joining Tim, but she knew Raylan would take advantage of the situation if both of his guards were busy fucking each other in the shower.

The door opened and a wave of steam rolled out as Tim exited, barefoot and with his shirt lifted high up on his chest as he used some deodorant.

"Mornin'," he greeted, yanking his shirt back down and tossing the stick into his own bag.

"Morning," she replied, smiling. "Coffee?"

Tim sighed, his eyes rolling back in his head as he took the coffee from her. "You're an angel," he told her, before he surprised the both of them and tilted his head to kiss her. Maxine hummed in pleasant surprise and kissed him back, but Tim pulled away all too suddenly.

"Correction," he said, taking a drink of his coffee. "You're an angel that desperately needs to brush her teeth."

"Well, excuse me," Maxine replied, offended and embarrassed. She needed to think of something witty, and fast. "I'm sorry I didn't intrude on your shower to brush my teeth, but I think we both know how that would've wound up."

Tim pretended to think about it. "You trying to seduce me and failing because I'm the one with superior control over my more basic urges?"

"Apparently the only urge you ever give into is being a dick."

Tim shrugged, as if to agree with her, and Maxine grabbed her bag and headed into the bathroom to get a shower and manage her dragon breath. She showered quickly, though not by choice. The hot water pussed out about five minutes in and she had to rush to finish shampooing her hair before she got hypothermia. She was shaking and covered in goosebumps when she got out, and maximized her time by drying off and using the friction from the towel to warm her up.

She slipped on some jeans and a grey henley and came out of the bathroom, shaking out her still-wet hair on one of the towels. Tim had put on his shoes and socks and was seated beside the table, a copy of _Outdoor Life_ on his lap. Maxine plopped down in the seat beside him and he glanced over at her before turning back to the article he was reading.

"I didn't know you liked to hunt," Maxine commented. Tim snorted a little.

"I don't."

"Oh."

Tim snorted. "I'll track, but I don't shoot. I mean, I never had much taste for deer meat to begin with. And then after my time in the sandbox... Fishing is more my speed now."

Maxine let out a little noise of recognition, like she understood. She did. She imagined that killing for a living would leave a bad taste in your mouth if it came to killing for sport.

She stood to go put the towel back in Raylan's bathroom and that's when said man woke up. She snickered at his "perimeter" suggestion, but she had no intention of leaving so he could get himself into deeper shit. What was it with this man and sticking his nose where it didn't belong? Did he always act like a spoiled brat? She remembered Raylan bending the rules back in Houston, but never anything like corrupting an investigation or jeopardizing his own safety.

Okay, that was a lie. He jeopardized his own safety a lot: Going off to apprehend fugitives alone when he knew damn good and well he was supposed to go with backup, getting in the back seat of a car with two hostile fugitives in the front seat, not wearing his vest when he should. Just stupid shit that he could easily restrain himself from doing.

So, as Raylan took his "shower", and Tim read up on some of the best crappie fishing spots in the country, Maxine did her makeup. She never did anything too heavy, because what was the point? But she did like to look pretty enough to get someone to talk. It made flirting for information a whole lot easier.

"What I don't get," Maxine said as she put her things in her bag. "Is why there are _two_ of us with one of him, but Rachel is watching Gary _and_ Winona."

Tim looked over at her. "Think about it: How likely is it that Gary and Winona will run off?" The second part of the question was tacit: _Now, how likely is it that Raylan runs off?_

She sighed. "Alright, I see your point."

The next part of the conversation started in Tim's SUV. Maxine was at the wheel, as she still had Tim's keys when Raylan decided he wanted ice cream for breakfast instead of the Egg McMuffin Maxine had so graciously supplied him. Tim had eaten Raylan's McMuffin without a second thought, and Maxine had just rolled her eyes. But, thanks to Tim's comment about _The Bodyguard_, she had Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You" stuck in her head.

"I'm just waiting," Tim commented.

"On what?"

"He's gonna do something stupid to try and shake us. I know it."

"Well, duh. He told us he would. And if I remember correctly, you said 'that shit makes you hard.' "

Tim snickered. "Well, it does for a while. But then I start over thinking and that just kills the mood."

"Tell me about it... Does that happen often, though? Like, getting boners on the job, I mean."

Tim shook his head. "Not usually. But sometimes when I've got a really good hunch, my nipples get stiff."

Maxine burst into giggles, which built up into cackling, and that escalated until she was wheezing and Tim had to take the wheel because she was swerving. She got her breath back long enough to pull into the parking lot behind Raylan and find a spot near the door. The glass door was covered with Lotto stickers. So, she didn't really get a good view as Tim and Raylan entered the store.

She stayed in the car, humming "I Will Always Love You" before she moved on to "Proud Mary." Fucking Tim and being adorable and referencing movies and getting songs stuck in her head.

She figured she'd have to make the next move, what with how distant Tim had been lately - but he _had_ kissed her this morning, so there was that. He obviously still held an interest in her, something was just holding him back.

She saw a familiar hat come out of the alleyway and swore, firing up the car and slamming it into reverse. Tim sprinted out of the store, pint of ice cream in his hand, and flung himself into the passenger seat. Maxine didn't even give him time to shut the door before she was accelerating and following Raylan onto the street.

He was driving recklessly, swerving in and out of traffic, turning on his left signal before he turned right, things like that. Maxine noticed the pattern: He was heading for the Interstate. She sighed and stopped tailing him.

"What the fuck? We'll lose him!"

"He'll kill himself if he keeps driving like that! And he's only driving like that _because_ we're tailing them. And the last thing we need is CID on our ass, thinking that we're hitmen too, out to kill Raylan for some guy with a vendetta against him."

Tim sighed and rubbed at his forehead. "Yeah, with my background, wouldn't be that hard to pin on me."

"And he's definitely headed for I-75 South."

Maxine could practically see the route the highway took run through Tim's head. "Harlan," Tim realized.

"Most likely."

As they got within 30 miles of the Harlan county line, she called Garcia and asked - no, _begged_ - him not to tell Art that she was asking him to track Raylan's low jack. Garcia laughed.

"_What's in it for me?_" he asked. The question would've been sexual if Garcia didn't sound so playful saying it.

"What's in it for _you_?" Maxine repeated, shooting Tim a glance as if to ask him for some insight. What would Garcia want? Tim shrugged, unsure himself. "Um... I'll take all your morning prisoner transports for the next three months."

_"Deal. I'll find him for you, just give me about ten minutes."_

"Call me back when you get a location."

_"Will do."_ And Garcia hung up. Maxine put her phone in the cup holder and huffed.

"Great. Raylan is slowly etching his name onto my shit list."

"You mean he wasn't already there?"

Maxine snickered. "Please, you love Raylan. Why else would you give him so much shit?" Tim went to protest but she shook her head. "Nope, you can't argue it. I know how you military guys are, Tim. Hell, I _am_ a military guy."

"Okay, look. I won't argue that I like Raylan. I have a lot of respect for the guy because he's been doing this for so long. But it's when he pulls shit like this that I wish I was still in the Army: a CO would court martial him. But here, he just gets suspended and a slap on the wrist because of his seniority and things."

Maxine snorted. "Seniority is the law of the land... Well, office hierarchy. Why do you think Rachel and Nelson barely have to work nights?"

"That's why? I thought it was a random lottery type deal."

"Nope. I got the shit detail in Mobile all the time: I was always the late night shift, and then I was always on the morning prisoner transports."_  
_

"I thought you worked fugitives down in Mobile."

She sighed. "It was my first time working with the fugitive task force when I blew my cover. My chief didn't even give me a second chance, just ordered my transfer."

"That's shitty."

They pulled up to the Bennett Store in Harlan, which had been severely defaced. Maxine kept her hand on her gun as she stared up the hill, where two armed thugs stood behind Raylan and the elderly lady near the ladder. She wasn't quite sure what was going on here. She'd never really been privy to the goings-on down in Harlan county, and frankly, she tried to steer clear of it. She had too much shit to deal with at work without paying attention at Raylan's debriefings.

Raylan headed down the hill to Tim. "Did you bring me my change?"

"Nope. Ice cream's melted, too," Tim said dryly. It _had_ melted in the car. Tim had cursed rather loudly when he accidentally kicked it over and covered the mud mat on the floor in the stuff.

"Well, you found me, I'm impressed."

"Yeah, give me a little credit. I'm a professional."

Maxine scoffed and Raylan looked over at her, seemingly understanding that it was her that led him to the conclusion.

"Okay," Raylan said, in a way that silently implied, 'yeah, okay, I'll buy it.' "

"Is she behind it?" Tim asked, nodding up to the Bennett matriarch. Maxine, for the life of her, couldn't remember the woman's name. She'd _really_ have to start paying attention in those debriefings if she was going to be coming down to Harlan to save Raylan's ass any more.

"She says no."

"That means its true then," Maxine drawled, suspiciously eyeing the elderly lady and her hired thugs.

"So what's with the Oak Ridge Boys out front of her place?" Tim asked.

"That's all about that Black Pike deal."

Maxine searched her brain. Black Pike was a mountain-top removal company wasn't it? She imagined a deal that allowed a company to do that wouldn't go so well in a town where slurry could ruin watering holes for game, and that town often relied on game for genuine sustenance. Wait. Shit. She remembered that from Raylan's last drunken ramble when they'd been sitting in the bar together. Mags Bennett - _that_ was the old lady's name! - had signed over her land to Black Pike.

"So, are we done here?" Tim prodded. He had complained the entire ride to Harlan. Poor little Oklahoma boy hated the winding, high grade roads into and around the town. It made him kind of nauseous, though Maxine knew he'd never admit it. He wanted nothing more than to go back to Lexington.

"Yeah. Oh, and just so you're not confused, I'm now gonna go to Winona's and check in on her, unless, of course, that's against the rules."

"The only rule is that you don't ditch me in the middle of a damn convenience store!" Maxine smirked at that a little. It _had_ been Tim that got ditched, hadn't it? He was obviously pissy about that.

But then she thought to tack on. "Oh, and don't make me chase you around downtown Lexington in a government vehicle. That's a no-no too."

"I'm not telling Art, by the way," Tim announced, hands on his hips. He looked like every bit of a mother hen and an enraged teenager at the same time. "'Cause that'd be my ass, too! So, yeah. Let's go see your ex-wife, girlfriend, whatever it is we're calling her."

That was when a bunch of police cars pulled up to the store from both ways up the road. Maxine sighed when a cop motioned her over with Raylan and Tim, herding them together. She figured she might as well just comply, lessen her risk of getting shot. She also wished she'd had the good sense to put on her jacket before she got out of Tim's SUV. She was freezing in her thin shirt.

Tim and Maxine glanced around as the police chief and Raylan spoke threateningly at one another, making sure no one pulled their sidearm. Maxine had her hand poised on hers, ready to cross-pull. She ran the numbers pretty quickly. Five police officers, along with the chief of police. She could take out two, at most, she figured. If someone started shooting, she'd go for the police chief first, and then his right hand man, because that would leave a hole in the chain of command. And nature abhors a vacuum, which would put a less experienced man in charge.

" - I guess they hired the wrong pros, huh?" the police chief demanded. Maxine glanced over at him when Raylan mentioned it could've been him that sent the hitmen. Shit, how much trouble did Raylan stir up down here to get a chief of police after him? Wait, did his name tag say Bennett? Was he the old lady's son? Oh, he was after Raylan because of that thing where Raylan killed Coover Bennett, wasn't he?

"Police chief wants to kill someone, he ain't gotta send anyone. He waits for the guy to show up on his turf, and he rolls up on him with a bunch of his police officers. You know, that way, he can make it look like the guy died resisting arrest."

Maxine snorted. Sounded like he had done that one too many times, or at least thought about it too much.

"Or, if that don't fly, well, hell, he could just, uh, disappear the body down an old, boarded-up mine shaft."

That she understood: It was how Coover had disposed of Loretta McCready's dad, and how Raylan had killed Coover.

"- he and his friends are gonna head back home. Everything I said holds," Mags Bennett called down the driveway. She spoke like she had a stuffy nose, but she had all the authority of an empress, that much was clear to see.

"Alright," Doyle, she figured the chief's name was, resigned. "But if you think I sent those hitters, you gotta figure, when you get down here, there's a chance I might wanna O.K. Corral it. You bring only one man to back you up?"

Maxine went to lunge forward and give that asshole a piece of her mind, 'cause he was smirking at her when he said it, like he thought she was inconsequential. Tim's hand grabbed firmly onto her elbow and held her back.

"Yeah, well," Raylan drawled smoothly, opening his car door. "I thought you'd bring more guys."

Rachel and Maxine were sharing the bed in the guest room, Tim was taking a couch in the same guest room. But, as of that moment, Maxine was between Tim and Winona, a piece of supreme pizza in her hand as she sat on Gary and Winona's couch. She noticed the disgusted look Tim was giving her slice of pizza as Raylan and Winona spoke over _True Grit._ She wondered what it was that was grossing him out, and she followed his gaze to the slices of pepper.

She took off a piece of pepper and dangled it in front of his face, much to his chagrin. He grimaced and shoved her hand away and she smiled, sticking the piece in her mouth. That was about when Rachel muted the TV, to be polite to Raylan and Winona, who were speaking.

"What about the FBI?" Gary prodded, butting into the conversation Maxine had ignored up to that point. "Do they have any suspects?"

"Not that we know of," Rachel told him, shifting in her seat a little and sending Tim a little closer to Maxine, not that either of them really minded.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open."

"Yeah, it's been a helluva couple days," Winona agreed.

"Uh, Raylan, I owe you an apology," Gary said, standing in the middle of the floor. Tim huffed and trained his eyes on the TV, which wasn't making any noise. Maxine agreed with Tim's huff: It was a little late for apologies. "Last night, I shouldn't have come at you like that."

"You didn't say anything I wasn't saying to myself." They shook hands and Gary retreated to his study while Raylan sat on the couch, looking somewhat confused. As Raylan and Winona began talking again, Rachel grabbed the remote and turned on the volume once more.

"In fact, you guys don't need to be here either," Raylan accused. Rachel looked up, Tim stayed staring at the screen, and Maxine arched her head up to give Raylan a look.

"Excuse me?" Rachel asked.

"Yeah, I'm going to go to bed before I turn into a pumpkin," Winona announced, trying to escape the awkward tension in the room. "Would you care to join me?" she asked Raylan. Oh, shit, Raylan was going to get laid. Good for him.

_Maybe that'll be enough motivation to keep him from running off tonight,_ Maxine mused, though, really, she doubted it.

"Yeah, I-I'll be there in a minute," Raylan agreed, and Maxine smirked, watching the great Raylan Givens loose his control.

"I feel like I'm in _The Big Chill_," Tim commented dryly, staring at the TV still. Maxine had never seen the film, but she remembered the tagline being _How much love, sex, fun, and friendship can a person take?_ She was seeing the friendship and sex, but she had yet to see the love and fun.

"Yeah, except no one's dead," Raylan retorted.

_"Yet,_" Tim replied. Ah, Tim, ever the optimist.

"And the music sucks," Rachel said, walking to the living room. Maxine wondered when she moved, because she sure as hell didn't remember it. She excused her lack of attentiveness because of her lack of sleep and the fact that this pizza was so damn good.

"Well, then, go home! Get some sleep!" Raylan suggested, following her down the hallway.

"Art wants somebody here."

"I'm here! Me and my shadows!"

"Yeah, we're here till you leave," Tim replied, following closely behind. Maxine had decided to let them all hash this out and grab herself a beer before bed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Raylan demanded, and Tim gave Raylan an incredulous look as Maxine walked into the sitting room, standing close to the door so she could have a quick escape if they tried to drag her into this.

"Do you not remember this morning?" Tim asked.

"What happened this morning?" Rachel inquired.

"I told you I was gonna do that," Raylan continued, ignoring Rachel's extremely valid question. Maxine gave her a look that said, 'I'll tell you later' though she didn't think Rachel caught it in her sleep deprived state.

"And now you're telling me you won't." Tim seemed unconvinced.

"Exactly."

"Do what?" Rachel prodded once more. Raylan looked at Rachel and then looked at Tim as if to say, 'you wanna tell her?' Tim pretended not to notice and took a big swig of his beer.

"Whatever," Rachel finally conceded, throwing up her arms like she had given up. "Listen, I take my orders from Art, which means I'm gonna be here unless he says otherwise. I will, however, take you up on that sleep. I'm assuming you three can handle the night watch."

"Make that you two," Maxine replied, yawning. "I got three hours of sleep last night and if I don't get my beauty rest, I look like I trash can."

"Too late," Tim commented from behind her. She wheeled around and glared and Tim held up his hands in surrender as she made for the stairs.

"I'm gonna go to sleep, too," she heard Tim say. "I'll relieve you in four hours."

Maxine jolted awake in the middle of the night, when she heard a door downstairs jostle. Rachel was still passed out on the bed beside her, and Tim was curled up in his sleeping bag on the floor, snoring because he was on his back. She glanced around, staying as silent as she could as she listened for some sort of hint as to what caused the noise. She glanced over at the clock. They had only been asleep for an hour, but what the hell could've - And then she heard the front door close. Shit.

She woke Tim, and they silently examined the house (well, silently after Tim jumped a damn mile in his sleeping bag from being disturbed). Rachel was still asleep, as was Winona, but Gary and Raylan were missing. Raylan's car was still outside, which was just great. They couldn't low-jack him now. Maxine was kind of relieved at that. She didn't have to call Garcia or Reynolds and pay up another few months of mornings to get Raylan's location. They just had to wait and see if Raylan came back.

"I'll stay up," Tim insisted, raking a hand down his face. He was less sleep deprived that Maxine, but he still looked tired. "You go back to bed." Maxine hesitated, but he gave her a look that said 'go, or I'll drag you up those stairs.' She sighed, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and headed for the stairs again.

In the morning, Raylan was back and Tim had called Art and determined that there was no longer a threat to Winona and Raylan's safety. There was no sign of Gary.


	6. Boomstick

Raylan was out of the office that day. It was a much-needed, nothing-out-of-the-ordinary day in the marshals office with him gone. Maxine was at her desk, as usual. She had been in court first thing that morning, testifying against Alex Young. She had to be in court the next morning to testify against the guy who had hit her with a lug wrench, Carter Shane. She hated this sort of thing: She hated loose ends. Alex and Carter weren't talking, and the chop shop guys that had escaped had been smart enough to lay low and stay off the interstate so they didn't have to deal with roadblocks and the like.

"Hey," Rachel called, walking over to her. "We just got a hit on one of the guys from the chop shop, an associate of his - an Edgar Gaynor - just popped up in the system. He got pulled over at a roadblock near Russell. He's got a history of petty theft and credit card fraud, which is the only reason he pinged. He and a guy from the chop shop did time together in Ashland."

Fuck. She knew an Edgar Gaynor, she just hoped it wasn't the same one she went to high school with.

It was, unfortunately, because life just never seemed to work out that way. He smiled at her when he saw her, all toothy and squinty-eyed, genuinely happy to see an old flame until he noticed the badge around her neck. She almost smiled back, but she remembered how downhill he'd gone after high school: The thefts and the fraudulence and the prison time. Back in the day, when he was her boyfriend and they were 16 and thought they were in love, they'd done some stupid shit, sure. They snuck into bars, and they vandalized school property, but it had never had any real consequences. None of it was real, at least not to Maxine it wasn't.

She was an emotionally distraught, bulimic teenager who had just been thrust into the foster care system. She wasn't feeling much of anything, being yanked away from her dad and mother and brother like that. Her dad hadn't put up a fight to get her to stay with him, her mother had been glad to see her go, and her brother was in college, nearly broke and two hours away. The only way she could feel something akin to happiness was by being reckless and being with Edgar.

"Shit, Eddie," she sighed, rubbing her forehead as she leaned against a state boy's car. Edgar was seated on a guard rail, his car booted and on the shoulder nearby. "Do you have any idea why I'm here?"

"Um... Are you going to arrest me?"

"Most likely. Unless you can tell me what you know about a chop shop operation in Covington that's tied to a human trafficking ring from Boston." She wasn't all that hopeful that he could.

Edgar gulped. "Look, I, uh."

"Ed. We can do this the easy way, right here, right now, or I can go and take you to Lexington to the marshal's office and we can do this hard way."

"I'll talk, I promise!" Edgar said, standing and waving his hands frantically. He had always been a hand-talker. "I just... It's too public here. It's not safe for me to be doing this. Young's got friends in this town, and I can't risk one of them seeing me talking to a fed."

Young. Did he mean Alex? She'd find out when she got him back to Lexington.

"Who the hell is this?" Art asked as she and a state trooper dragged Edgar into the office.

"Edgar Gaynor, associate to Ryan Walton from the chop shop - one of the idiots that came at me with a lug wrench and the guy that owned the pit bull that nearly killed me. He said he'd talk, but he wanted some place private. So, conference room?"

"Sure, it's all yours."

She motioned for a trooper to place him in the conference room and took a seat across from him with a pen and a notebook and a couple of files.

"Alright, Ed, start talking."

And, boy, did he talk. He explained that Ryan Walton was in a dog-fighting ring, in addition to the chop-shop deal. The chop shop usually dealt with the dope runners from Detriot, but lately they'd been using them to build clean cars for traffickers to get from Boston to Nevada, where most of the time the girls were sold and then married off. The cars were then sold to "coyotes" who would use them to slip across the border into Mexico and back.

She had names and faces and locations and everything. So, she relinquished him to Garcia with instructions to get him set up with protection. She spun around to walk back to her desk and start putting out BOLOs and sending out emails to marshals divisions involving those locations and start tracking some of these assholes down, when Edgar called out to her.

"Hey, Maxine!"

She spun back around, sighing. "Yes, Edgar?" He was a good five feet away from her, and looking every bit like the teenager he had been before she'd gone into the Navy. He was bouncing from foot to foot, smiling nervously.

"You wanna go out to dinner later?"

Maxine stared at him for a second. He couldn't seriously be asking her that, could he? They had known him a lifetime ago - right when she went into foster care, he'd been there. They'd run amok, sure, but it was never anything illegal or too serious. She had changed, and Edgar obviously hadn't.

"No," she replied, rolling her eyes. She went back to her desk and started typing away. Edgar stared at her for a while until Garcia and the trooper went to escort him to his motel. She pretended she didn't hear him when he left, which was admittedly a bitchy move. But he was from a part of her life she'd rather not remember.

She got a phone call about an hour after Edgar left from a trooper named Tom Bergen in Harlan, that one of her chop-shop guys was shacking up with some guy named Dickie Bennett. She wondered briefly if he was any relation to Doyle and Mags and Coover.

Shit. Where was Raylan when she needed him?

"Art," Maxine spoke, tapping on the glass to his office to get his attention. She waited until he lifted his eyes from the papers in front of him before she told him where she was going. "I've got a hit on one of my BOLOs, down in Harlan -"

"Take Tim with you," Art replied immediately, turning his head back down to his papers.

"Um... Okay?" She turned around and walked out, tapping on top of Tim's computer to get his attention. His head snapped up, surprised at the sudden noise. "Timothy, you're with me."

"Where are we going?" he asked, standing up and picking up his Marshal's jacket.

"Harlan. Arresting a fugitive by the name of Ryan Walton."

"Lug wrench guy?" Maxine wondered how he managed to hit the nail on the head so well, but then she remembered that he'd helped her set up the BOLOs and identify her attackers.

"Lug wrench guy. He's shacking up with some guy named Dickie Bennett."

Tim paused just before they got to the door. "Hang on. Let me go grab my boomstick." He ran off to the locker room and came back with his rifle case. "Alright, let's go."

"You really think that's going to be necessary?"

"Um, do you not recall his asshole brother of a police chief surrounding us just a day or two ago? We're taking my boomstick and I'm covering your ass."

She didn't argue any further, because he was right. She was probably going to need backup if it was a Bennett she was going to be dealing with.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Bennett," Maxine spoke, stepping into the Bennett store. It was quite stuffy in there. "I'm Maxine O'Nan, with the US Marshals office."

"Oh, well, hi Marshal. Is Raylan with you?"

"No, ma'am, he's busy elsewhere. I came to you for some information."

"What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for your son Dickie -" She held up a hand quickly to interrupt the woman who was sure to yell at her or defend her boy. "He's not in any sort of trouble. But I believe he knows where someone I'm looking for is."

"And who might you be lookin' for?" Mags looked a little out of sorts. Maxine imagined from her last time seeing Mags that she was used to having all the control. She couldn't threaten a woman who was rarely down here in Harlan, who she had just met, who didn't have roots here to rot and cut away. Maxine had the power here, and she was clinging to it.

"I'm looking for man named Ryan Walton. I have reason to believe he's shacking up with Dickie. He's wanted for assaulting a federal officer and several other charges." The sentiment was clear. Did she really want her to arrest her son for harboring a federal fugitive? Did she really want her boy dragged down into this?

"Dickie's probably down at Audrey's."

"Great, thank you." She was almost to the door before she paused and asked, "Um. Where _is_ Audrey's?"

Audrey's was a loophole to Harlan county's law on liquor sales. It wasn't technically a bar, just four trailers in a semi circle. One of the trailers was a bar, the other three were apparently for Audrey's booming prostitution ring. It was absolutely dreadful, Maxine realized, grimacing as she walked into the trailer with the wet bar. She hadn't even lived in foster homes this nasty.

Tim was right behind her. Tim hung out in some pretty sleazy establishments himself, but Audrey's really took the cake. A woman with greasy hair and nasty breath leaned up against him when Maxine left his side to go talk to the bartender.

"Hey, cutie pie," she greeted, smiling. She was definitely a smoker, he could tell by her teeth. "Want me to show you a good time?"

"Uh, I'd like for you to leave me alone," he replied, going Ranger-still, hoping his lack of response would encourage her to leave him alone. She pressed a little closer to him, hand rubbing on his chest.

"Oh, come on, sugar, I can -"

"He's in the trailer across the way with a girl," Maxine said, stepping back up to Tim. She pulled out her badge and flashed it at the woman. "I suggest you leave the man alone before I arrest you for solicitation."

The woman stepped back and walked away and Maxine motioned for Tim to lead the way out of the trailer.

"Solicitation, huh?" Tim asked, smirking at her. "I didn't know that was in the US Marshal Service purview now."

"Shut up. I could practically see your skin crawling. Thought I'd have a little mercy on you," she replied, shrugging and wishing Tim wouldn't be so smug for once.

"Yeah, that's it."

"I'm sorry, did you _want_ syphilis? 'Cause I'm sure she'll give it to you if you go back and ask for it real nicely."

Tim shuddered, because he remembered some pictures from high school health class of syphilis and he was _not_ going to deal with that.

Maxine yanked open the trailer door. "Dickie Bennett!"

Dickie was right in the middle of fucking a woman, who was obviously faking her enthusiasm. Tim nearly pissed himself laughing when Maxine grabbed him by the ear and pulled him off the woman. Dickie grabbed the closest thing to him to cover himself, which happened to be a bong.

"Dickie, are these friends of yours?" the girl asked, eyeballing Tim like he was a piece of meat.

Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, handing over a twenty and a ten to the blonde girl by the bed. "Get dressed. This never happened."

"Okay, mister," she said, batting her eyelashes at him. Tim grimaced as he looked away and over at Dickie and Maxine.

"You're telling me you have no clue where Ryan Walton is?" Maxine pressed, one hand on his chest and the other yanking harder on his ear. "Because I've had a couple of people tell me you do."

"Well, what're you gonna do that makes it worth my while?" Dickie inquired, looking over at Tim. Tim arched an eyebrow. This guy wanted a bribe? Oh, hell no.

"We won't take you in for prostitution or possession of a controlled substance," Tim said, eyeballing the bong and the bottle of OxyContin on the counter.

"Oh, hey, now! H-h-hey now! I just now remembered where Ryan is!"

"Yeah, I bet you did," Maxine growled, shoving him over to where his clothes lay on the floor.

Maxine killed the engine as soon as she figured they were close enough to the barn Walton was hiding in. Dickie had sang like a canary about Ryan's whereabouts and directed them to an old cattle ranch about fifteen minutes away from Audrey's. The barn was decrepit and graying, but it looked structurally sound. It was probably draftier than shit, though, Maxine figured, eyeing the missing siding. It wouldn't have been her first choice of a place to stay the night, but she supposed that most criminals didn't get to hide out in five star hotels.

Maxine hopped out of her Dodge Avenger, ready to get this over with, only to duck down behind the door when the sound of gunfire erupted from the shed. Tim cursed and hopped out, using the door for cover while he set up his rifle.

He heard Maxine firing her pistol and smirked when he heard the man howl. He found the man in his scope, up in the barn's hayloft, gingerly holding his arm. Ryan had his own rifle, but was losing his grip on it thanks to that nice shot from Maxine that nailed him in the right bicep.

"Wing him?" Tim guessed.

"I think I handled that already. Just cover me. I'm going into the barn and up to the loft. I don't know if he's got backup in there or not."

Tim nodded and kept his gaze on Ryan, who had just dropped his rifle down to the ground below. Maxine bolted for the barn as Ryan pulled out his pistol with his left hand. Tim didn't hesitate: He shot Ryan in the center of mass.

"I'll have a couple of my men guard him," Tom Bergen told them as the paramedics carted off Ryan Walton. "Good shooting," he said to Tim. Tim shrugged, not really thinking it was. He hadn't considered the wind making the bullet yaw like it had, because he missed the guy's heart by a few inches.

"Why did you shoot his bicep first?" Tom asked as they watched the doors to the ambulance close.

"Oh, Maxine took his arm because he was shooting at her and her car." Maxine was actually inspecting her car as he spoke, crooning and whining about the damage. She really loved her car. "I took the second shot 'cause he was trying to shoot at her." Tim figured that was a better reply than the sarcastic 'Oh, she shot him in the arm because she didn't want him jacking off for a while.'

"With his left hand?" It did seem incredibly stupid, unless you'd trained extensively in shooting with both hands.

"Yessir," Maxine replied, walking away from her injured baby. "Anyway. I just hope he talks. I'd really like to round up all these guys and get this over with."

"What exactly is your deal with this?" Tom asked, leaning against the hood of her wounded Sedan.

So, Maxine explained that in an attempt to keep the Marshals from moving a witness to a safer location, a bunch of Persian traffickers contacted the guy who fixed up some cars for them. They ordered him to pay off a truck driver to drive in a manner that would cause the car to crash and cause traffic on the interstate and thus obstruct Tim and Maxine's journey to said witness. When she later went to arrest said chop shop owner and his cohorts, they attacked her. Two came at her with weapons and she subdued one, but the other four men got away - but not the owner, Alex Young.

"So, anyway," Maxine sighed. "It's complicated."

"Yeah, you can say that again. I'll keep my eyes peeled for you, alright?"

"I appreciate it, Tom, thank you," Maxine replied. Tom stood and walked over to his own cruiser while Maxine looked over at Tim. "Nice shootin' there, Tex."

He snorted, still cursing himself for not adjusting for the wind. At least this way she had a chance at getting some information out of the guy, Tim figured. Silver linings.

"Same to you. Making that shot with a _pistol_? Pretty damn sexy." And, strangely enough, Tim _had_ found it sexy. She was under fire, adrenaline pumping, and was still calm and in control enough to make a shot from a tough angle, from far away, with a pistol. If the military allowed women into direct combat, Tim would've gladly served beside her.

"Well, you are what you eat."

Tim arched an eyebrow. "Funny, see, I don't recall there being anything sexy about the Taco Bell we swung through on our way out here."

"There must've been, or else, how would you explain my shooting?"

"Skill?"

Maxine laughed. "Oh, hell no. I'm not that good."

Tim begged to differ.

* * *

Maxine and Tim rolled into the Marshal's Office, sighing rather heavily at the late hour. They both had to do paperwork for the day, and Maxine had a big web of people taped up on a whiteboard in the conference room, and she finally got to take off another name and another photo. Ryan Walton was a thorn in her side no longer.

"You always do that?" Tim asked, looking up from his own computer, answering some emails, as Maxine came out of the conference room.

"Do what? Be fabulous? Because that's a resounding 'yes.'"

Tim rolled his eyes. "The whiteboard thing."

"Huh?" She looked back at the carefully arranged photos on the whiteboard in the conference room. "Oh, yeah. Always. Back in Houston, they finally caved and got me my own. Should've asked to bring it with me."

"Kind of creepy. Like... Stalker creepy."

She laughed and picked up her phone. They were both putting in the overtime to finish up their paperwork, so she figured as long as she was here, "Wanna order a pizza?"

"As long as you don't get one of those gross supreme things, again."

"Picky eater much?"

"Always," Tim replied, smirking.

"How'd that go over in the Army?"

Tim snickered and looked up at her. "You should know that doesn't count, it's circumstantial."

She sighed and rubbed at the back of her neck, dialing a pizza place nearby. She then plopped down at her desk and started on her work. She was just in the midst of finishing up the shooting report when she glanced up, thinking.

"Hey, Tim?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think the marshals' service will pay for the damage to my car?"

Tim laughed. "That's a question for Raylan."

"Why did you say, the other day," Maxine spoke as she and Tim sat in the conference room to finish off their pizza before they left. Tim was on slice number six, and Maxine was on number four, "That you wished you could've shot your dad?"

Tim choked on his bite of pizza and thumped his chest to force the under-chewed piece down before he spoke, looking up at her. "What the hell, Max? Is now really the time to discuss this?"

"Well, do you see anyone around to hear?"

"I'd really rather not talk about it," Tim said, biting into his pizza. He thought for a second about things he didn't want to discuss and decided to hit her back with something _she_ probably didn't want to discuss. "Did you really have an eating disorder?"

"Oh, no. That's not how this is going, Timothy. You tell me, then I'll tell you."

Tim huffed, but since he was genuinely interested in her story, he caved. "Alright. You knew I grew up in Tulsa, right? I was the youngest of three boys, and I didn't get a whole lot of attention, which is probably why I'm such an asshole. But, anyway..." He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves. "My mom ran out on us when we were younger, and because I apparently looked the most like her, my dad thought it would make him feel better to beat the ever-loving shit out of me every time he got drunk. He drank a lot."

"Oh, shit, Tim. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He had a stroke when I was nineteen, just before I shipped off to sniper school. Got his blood pumping too hard beating the shit out of some guy in a bar. Good riddance. The world's better off without him."

She looked at him pitifully. "So... Has your mom tried to contact you? Are you and your brothers on good terms?"

"Mom? No. She could be dead for all I know. Brothers? We're on decent terms but one is in Oklahoma still and one moved out to Salt Lake City years ago."

"So, what do you do on Christmas or Thanksgiving?"

"Rachel's family usually takes enough pity on me to invite me over. For the most part, though, I decline and just put in overtime."

That was incredibly sad, but Maxine figured she didn't have much room to talk because she spent her Christmas and Thanksgiving with her two cousins and older brother, because her mother and aunt and uncle were all worthless, her dad had died a couple of years ago, and her grandparents were too far into their dementia to remember her, let alone celebrate with her.

"So, your turn. Did you really have an eating disorder?"

Maxine nodded. "Yep. That recruiter I mentioned a few days ago, when he put me on the scale... I was like one hundred and ten pounds. Five-foot-eight and one hundred and ten pounds, hadn't had my menstrual cycle since sixth grade. I was anemic. I remember this recruiter just looking at me like I was a corpse and he told me to come back when I'd put on fifty pounds."

She sighed, remembering the day.

"I didn't have anywhere to go. I mean, my mom wasn't an option and my foster parents sure as hell wouldn't keep me if they weren't getting paid for it... I didn't know what to do, so I called my cousin and shacked up with him in Louisville for a month or two. He was a high school wrestling coach, had me in tip-top shape in about two or three months, then I was back at the recruiting office. I felt good when they handed me my forms, you know? Like I could just go and conquer the world."

Tim nodded, because he knew the feeling.

"Anyway. Thank you, for humoring me." She stood from her seat and leaned over just enough to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth. "I'm going to go ahead home."

"Sleep tight," Tim called as she walked out of the conference room with the empty pizza box.

He watched her walked out of the office, a little confused as to why he didn't feel as shitty about his story talking to her as he normally did when he told someone.

* * *

"We got a hit," Rachel told Maxine. Maxine glanced up, wondering what she meant. "Two of your guys, actually, from the chop shop. Got pulled over for speeding and they're taking them in now. A Baxter Smith and a Cory Jones."

"Oh, hell yes," Maxine cheered, running over to the whiteboard in the conference room. She took those two off. Oh, she felt good about that.

"And another trooper just saw Wilson Wheeler's car at a rest stop outside of Louisville. I called it in to the Louisville office and they said they'd handle it and call us to let us know if they find him."

"Awesome," Maxine said with a smile. Rachel was a blessing, truly. Now she just had a few loose ends to tie up, thanks to Edgar, and she'd be home free. That's when Winona stormed into the bullpen and grabbed Art, yanking him into his office. Rachel and Maxine exchanged raised eyebrows.

It took maybe all of five minutes for the discussion, but Art came back out and started barking out orders. Phone calls had to be made - somebody find Dickie and Doyle Bennett! - and prisoner transports and court appearances would have to be rescheduled. Tim had to get his rifle and they needed every available marshal - on duty or off - to come in to the office _now_.

"This," Art said, pulling up a photo of a young girl with brown hair and baby fat still in her cheeks on the screen in the conference room. "Is Loretta McCready. The Bennetts supposedly killed her father about a month ago. Since the time we were aware, Loretta has been in foster care with a family here in Lexington. She stayed with them for about a week and a half, but today, according to her family's statement to LPD, she stayed home from church with a head cold. When they came back, she was gone, along with a .38 six shooter the father owned and about three hundred dollars in cash."

"Sounds like she left willingly," Maxine interrupted, confused. "Why are the marshals getting involved?" There were several murmurs of agreement around the room.

"Because. Raylan got himself involved and it's up to us to save his sorry ass. Also, because Loretta is walking into a town with plenty of federal fugitives with a gun. Consider this preventative marshals work," Art said, shrugging. "Anyway. We have reason to believe she'll approach the Bennett's, armed and pissed off. We also have reason to believe Raylan will be close behind."

Maxine was jumpy as hell, stuck in the backseat an SUV with Rachel and Garcia. She didn't know Garcia all that well, but she knew that he was a fairly nice guy who used to work in LPD's special victim's unit.

_"Loretta McCready approaching the house,"_ Tim's voice crackled in their earpieces._ "They've got guns on her."_

_"Don't shoot,"_ Art ordered, voice just as static-y as Tim's. _"Not yet."_

_"Wilco,"_ Tim replied. _"She's entering the house with Mags."_

"How many stationed outside?" Garcia asked, and Maxine grimaced because she had a funky echo, hearing his normal speaking voice in one ear and his static-y, radio voice simultaneously in the other.

_"I count six, not including Doyle Bennett,"_ Tim said. Maxine tried to picture it._ "All out front. Two with AR-15s, three with sawed off shotguns, one with a rifle... Doyle Bennett has a pistol, I don't know what kind. I can only see the handle."_

_"Thank you, Tim. Keep your eyes peeled for Raylan,"_ Art said.

It was another fifteen minutes before Tim spoke. "Raylan's car has just pulled up. He's got Dickie Bennett with him. I don't think Doyle is letting them - Raylan's gun is against Dickie's head."

_"If anyone pulls on Raylan,"_ Art spoke quickly. _"Shoot to kill, Tim."_

_"Wilco."_

Still silent. That's when there was a shot. Then more.

_"SHOT FIRED INSIDE AND OUT. RAYLAN'S DOWN."_ Maxine had never heard Tim speak so fast, and that's when Art gave the command to advance.

_"Doyle's pulled, I'm taking him,"_ Tim said, his voice stone cold. There was one more shot and that's when Art started barking into the megaphone. Rachel and Maxine bailed out of the van, pointing their weapons at the house. Tim stationed himself behind a car door, staring down the scope at the house's windows.

"Raylan, you okay?" Art asked. Raylan got to his feet, slowly and painfully, but he rose up.

"Give me a bit, Art," he said, arching his head to look at the house.

"Alright," Art conceded. "Tim, Rachel, go with him."

Maxine started cuffing and confiscating. She recognized one of them from Edgar giving him up for dog fights. She tightened his cuffs just a little bit tighter than she should have. He wound up in the back of a trooper's car with one of his cohorts, and the other two pairs wound up in another two cruisers. Doyle Bennett's body still lay on the ground, blood seeping into the asphalt.

When Rachel came out with Loretta, Maxine expected for Tim and Raylan to be close behind. But they weren't.

* * *

"God damn it, Tim, stop fidgeting," Maxine demanded. She was right beside Tim in the hospital hallway as they waited for the doctor to update them on Raylan's condition. She understood, waiting was the worst part, but Tim wasn't doing anybody any favors by jack-rabbiting around. He had a damned cup of coffee in his hand too, which she was sure wasn't helping his nervous jitters any.

"Sorry," he muttered. And then he went creepily still. His breathing evened out and softened and his muscles froze. She wondered how the hell he did that, but then figured that sniper school probably had something to do with it.

"God damn it, Tim, you're freaking me out," Maxine commented.

"You wanted me to stop fidgeting."

"I didn't want you to turn into stone!"

"I'm sorry, it was my fault for looking you in the eyes."

That got him a rather hard, well-deserved kick to the shin.


	7. That I Can Relate To

Sitting at his desk and doing nothing but filling out BOLOs all day and purging files and putting case files together made Raylan antsy as hell. He was irritable, crotchety, and willing to bite the head off of anybody who crossed him. Maxine wondered if he could possibly act any more like an old, angry grandpa.

So, when Boyd Crowder came in, the general consensus of the office was to let Raylan handle him. Hell, maybe Boyd would rile Raylan up, Raylan would shoot him, kill him, and get rid of his stress. They'd get Boyd out of their hair and get Raylan's anger dealt with. Two birds with one stone.

Meanwhile, for Maxine, the past three weeks had been crazy stressful. That morning, the entire office was in the war room, going over their cases. Maxine had one of the most high profile cases in the office and, for the past week, had no advancements to report. Just set-backs. A lot of the men she had arrested already had lawyered up and refused to give her any information, despite the fact that she could talk to the ADA and get them leniency. All of her resources for information - her friend Tristen in the CIA, Quin in the FBI, and even an old Marshal buddy who was currently stationed in Boston - had been drained. She couldn't keep asking them for favors like that, and she couldn't make any headway without an informant. But no one would talk.

Well, except maybe...

She looked up Edgar Gaynor's information once more - including his cell phone number, DMV records, and the information on his LPD-sponsored protection detail. She figured if she could get anybody to talk, it would be Ed.

She printed it off and walked over to the printer next to Tim's desk, snatching up the information. Tim, who was seated at his desk munching on pistachios, glanced up at her.

"What's that?" Tim asked curiously.

"Edgar Gaynor's information," Maxine said.

"Oh, finally going out to dinner with the snitch?"

"Timothy James Gutterson," Maxine said, smiling at him in a rather smug manner. "Are you _jealous_ of a convicted felon?"

"No. Why would I be?" He tossed an unshelled pistachio in the air and caught it in his mouth, munching on it. Maxine nearly snorted. He was so cute when he was trying to pretend he didn't have emotions. He was such a teenager.

"I dunno. Why would you be?" The implication of her words and her arched eyebrow was clear: Edgar Gaynor didn't have jack shit on Tim Gutterson.

She had just pivoted her hips, ready to walk back to her desk, when the sound of shattering glass had her pivoting toward's Art's office. Boyd Crowder's crazy, untamed hair was the first thing Maxine noticed. Then she saw Raylan sprawled on the ground, getting the shit knocked out of him, and she went to stop it. Tim was there first. _Track star_.

He had actually barreled into Art's office so fast he nearly fell when he stopped and grabbed Boyd's collar and the back of his shirt. He jerked the man to his feet and slammed him into the glass beside Art's door, cuffing him faster than Boyd could say "Miranda Rights." Tim shoved Boyd over to the holding cell and Maxine stared at him, admiring his competence and his reflexes and _his ass, Jesus fuck._

* * *

"Quite a stunt you pulled," Maxine said, sidling up to Tim after he had finished filing the report on the arrest.

Tim glanced up at her, eyebrows furrowed a little. "Uh, thanks?" His eyes scanned the way she was leaning against his desk, the swell of her hips, the way her ankles crossed, and he felt himself chuckle a little. "Oh, okay, I get it."

He leaned back in his chair, one hand on his pen, tapping against the desk, the other on his arm rest. His legs were spread wide and his head cocked to the side, powerful and masculine as he taunted her. "You saw me in action with Boyd over there, and it got your engine purring. You're obviously here to ask me out. Sorry, Max, but it's not me you're impressed with. It was what I did."

Raylan snorted from over the partition. "Yeah, Maxine, really. There's nothing particularly impressive about Tim."

Tim took his pen and chucked it over the partition, nailing Raylan in the head with it. Raylan twitched in surprise before grimacing in the pain that put his left side in.

"I got off the phone with Edgar Gaynor," Maxine said randomly, and both Tim and Raylan turned their attention to her. Tim's eyes were wide, smile gone. Raylan, however, looked more confused, eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly parted, pressing for more without really asking.

"And?" Tim continued, sitting up in his chair and bringing his legs closer to him, looking like a school boy about to take notes.

"Well, he said he didn't feel comfortable talking about it over the phone, which I figured was understandable. He said he wanted to meet at the hotel, discuss the case."

"Bad idea," was the first thing out of Raylan's mouth. Tim nodded.

"I hate to say it, but I agree with him," Tim said.

"Why not? He's got a protection detail. The hotel is -"

"The protection detail is a bunch of locals," Tim said. "Let's face it; Lexington's finest aren't exactly the _best_."

Maxine rolled her eyes. "Whatever, I'm going." She stormed off towards her desk, leaving Tim and Raylan to themselves. Tim turned to Raylan, giving him the universal hand gesture and head shake for 'what the hell is she thinking?'

* * *

While Tim was out, finding some parolee that had skipped out on a meeting with his parole officer, and Raylan was 'on lunch,' Maxine walked up to Art's office and hesitantly knocked on the glass. Art glanced up and sighed in relief, removing his reading glasses and motioning Maxine in with a wave of his hand.

"Everything alright?" Maxine asked, eyeing the paper work on his desk. A bunch of charts, a bunch of numbers, a bunch of categories. Looked like he was budgeting.

"Yeah, except with you and Raylan in this office, I have to entirely reconsider my medical budget for next quarter. And then that'll take away from the car repair budget and the weapons budget and... Ugh. Anyway, what did you have to ask?"

"Oh, right. I contacted Edgar Gaynor, and he agreed to meet with me and help me get a lead or two on my board." She pointed into the war room through the broken glass to her commandeered white board, covered in about three or four interwoven pyramids of photos and names. Some serious progress had been made, but as of the past week, the case was almost catatonic.

"Seems pretty sketchy. Take Garcia with you," Art ordered.

Maxine huffed. "Why is everybody so convinced this is dangerous?"

"Because. It's sketchy." Art said simply, giving her a look. He had heard nothing but good things of this girl (except from the chief deputy down in Mobile) and her apparent attention to detail. But how could she not see the threat here?

"Art, I don't need to take Garcia. I'm completely able to defend myself. Besides, he has a protection detail!"

"You still need to take Garcia," Art insisted. What the hell had they taught her and Raylan in Houston? Because they were both becoming major pains in his ass.

"If this was Raylan or Tim, would you make them take Garcia?" Maxine contested, folding her arms and cocking her hip and staring Art down.

Art stood, anger flaring in his eyes. Maxine had never seen Art this stressed, but considering the day he'd had, she figured she picked the wrong day to challenge authority. "You think _that's_ what this is about?!" Maxine grimaced as the commotion in the office came to a standstill. The door was open, and his screaming was for all to hear. "Deputy O'Nan -" Oh, shit, he broke out the last name.

"- I don't know what sort of misogyny you've had to deal with in the past, either in the Navy or in the Marshals Service, but that's not happening here. This is about you being on a high profile case, chasing a string of dangerous people from fucking Boston down to Mexico. This is about a lot of dangerous people knowing that it's _you_ out to get them, and this is about the possibility of one of those dangerous people sitting on Edgar Gaynor and waiting for us to drop our guard."

Maxine just stared and shifted her weight to her other foot, unable to reply.

"You're taking Garcia," Art said finally, sitting back down at his desk. "That's final."

Maxine nodded and went to leave when Art called out her name again. She spun around and he handed her a couple of leafs of paper work. "You asked about repairing your car, right? Well, fill out those forms and fax it to the number here." Art scrawled out a number on a post-it and slapped it onto one of the papers before handing it over.

Maxine stared at them as she took it, meekly thanked Art, and walked back to her desk, not looking at Rachel or Garcia or Nelson, who were all staring at her. Out of all the chiefs she had, Art was the most fatherly. He could be callous and logical one moment, concerned only for your protection, then joking and fun the next.

She decided as she sat at her desk and got to work on the paperwork Art had just given her that she really liked her chief.

* * *

She went to talk to Edgar just after she clocked out. The hotel they stationed witnesses and CIs in wasn't the Sheraton, that was for damn sure. But it wasn't half bad, Maxine thought. Garcia had rather graciously agreed to Art's command and had assured Maxine that it wasn't her fault for keeping him after the clock.

"Besides, I pissed off the wife the other night," Garcia commented as they walked up the stairs to Edgar's motel room on the third floor. His room faced the courtyard of the hotel, with the door opening right onto the balcony walkway and down to the motel pool. "I'm avoiding grovelling."

Maxine laughed. She liked Garcia - he was very candid and he had an easy smile. With the help of LPD, they secured each hallway and, once sure that the building was safe, Maxine knocked on the door to Edgar's room, smiling awkwardly at the LPD officer by the door.

Edgar opened the door and smiled, toothy and squinty-eyed, as always. "Hey, Max! Come on in... Who's your friend?"

"Deputy US Marshal Charles Garcia," Garcia said, smiling a little and shaking Edgar's hand. "Don't mind me, I'm just here for backup." He stepped inside and shut the door, standing at the wall between the window and door. He shut the blinds on the window and Edgar sat in a chair near the back of the room. Maxine sat on the bed.

"Doesn't this motel room remind you of homecoming, sophomore year?" Edgar asked, laughing.

Maxine snorted. "You mean the one you broke into? Yeah, kind of."

"God, you remember the police coming and us having to slip out the bathroom half-naked?"

Garcia's eyes widened and she let out a breathy laugh. Maxine was a little mortified, but she nodded anyway. "Yeah, no. I remember. Um... Anyway. You said you had some information you'd be willing to give up?"

"Yeah, sure. Where do you want to start?"

Maxine stood, laying out some photos on the bed - an exact replica of her whiteboard back at the office. Garcia watched, amused but impressed, as she set it up and pointed to a cluster of three men near the bottom of the web. "I can't tie these three guys - dog fighters - back to the Persians. What am I missing?"

Edgar, who was on his feet now beside the bed, pointing near the top of the web. "You're missing a Persian. His name is Arman Turani. He's got a younger sister who married Tanner Young, Alex Young's brother and -"

Maxine tapped his photo. "Dog fighter extraordinaire that no one's seen in two weeks... Alright, do you know the sister's name?"

"No clue," Edgar said with a shrug.

"Is she involved in any of this?" she asked, waving her hand over the map.

Edgar shook his head, thinking hard and biting at his cheek. "As far as I know, she's legit. She's got a diamond cutting business in Versailles. But, I mean, she could be working something under the radar."

Garcia piped up. "You remember that guy in California? He ran a diamond cutting business and would sneak out shipments of cocaine in the waste product? Like, side by side with the plastic baggies of diamond dust?"

"Yeah... I'll look into that," Maxine said, making a note of it on her pad. _Turani-Young, female, Persian, diamond cutting, Versailles. _Then, Ed spoke up and filled out another connection.

"That Reaver guy," he said, pointing to one of the photos. "He has a jewelry store in Frankfort."

"And he's got a previous record of cocaine dealing," Garcia piped up.

Maxine made another note of it. "So, Arman's little sister is a cocaine dealer? I mean, Tanner and Alex Young don't get involved in the drug scene, just chop shops and dog fights. What -"

The sound of a couple guns going off was enough to stop conversation. The LPD officer outside thumped against the wall and then to the ground outside. Maxine grabbed Edgar's arm, about to pull him out of the way of the window when a bullet ripped open the lock on the door. Maxine glanced over in time to see two forms cloaked in black across the courtyard and one floor up.

One of them pulled the bolt and reloaded, ready to shoot once more, but the smaller of the two grabbed the one that reloaded and yanked for the stairs.

Edgar's familiar eyes were still wide in shock, blood seeping out of the wound on his head along with brain matter, as Maxine stood, unholstered her sidearm, and ran after the attackers.

"US MARSHALS, DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" She ordered, having covered the distance rather quickly and staring down the stairs at the two perpetrators.

One of them, clearly a woman thanks to her skin-tight clothing, pointed her rifle at Maxine. Maxine didn't hesitate, firing a shot straight into her chest. She hit the ground, and Maxine pointed her gun at the man. Garcia was coming up behind him, having taken the stairs from the side of the pool Edgar was on.

"US Marshals," Garcia said, approaching slowly. The man whipped his head around, shocked at his presence. "I don't want to shoot you, man. Just drop the weapon and this doesn't have to end badly."

The man dropped the weapon and Garcia had him cuffed instantly before pulling out his phone and calling for backup and paramedics.

* * *

Tim had been on edge, thanks to his failure of an attempt on capturing Fletcher Nix. And, of course, Raylan had to go and steal his fucking limelight. But, such was life. Right?

When Art got Garcia's call, it had taken them maybe twenty minutes to get to the scene and provide backup. Maxine was in the hotel room, staring at the bullet hole in the wall when Tim got there with Art close behind. Art stared at it, then at the blood stain left by Edgar Gaynor and the LPD officer.

"They shot him _through_ the wall?" Art asked, eyebrow arching."

Tim had made a similar shot before, so he explained. "Armored piercing rounds and a high powered rifle and a lot of skill is all you need. You can do it."

Maxine didn't reply. Tim stood there, awkward. He had never had a CI get killed with him in the room. That was just stupidly dangerous of the shooters. But he knew of Maxine's history with Edgar. He knew he had been there for a rough part of her life - well, he didn't _know_, but he was intuitive enough to gather that much. Having watched Edgar die in such a horrible way for helping her was sure to leave a scar on her psyche. And with how fragile her psyche probably was after the war and working in the Marshals Service for so long, he didn't know just how quick she'd snap.

"On the upside," Art said. "You knocked off two of the people from the web."

"Gee, Art, thank you for that," Maxine hissed. "That was really what I was thinking about right now."

Apparently, she was going to snap that quick. Art, for his part, took it in stride, patted her on the shoulder, and walked out to talk to the ME. Tim stared at her for a while longer and she looked at him, eyes covered in a film of unshed tears.

"He's gonna send me to the psychologist after this, isn't he?"

"Probably," Tim said, deciding to be honest. "To be fair, he sends me there every time I shoot someone."

"You must be down there a lot."

"More often than I'd like... Are you gonna be okay?"

She sighed and shook her head. "No. No way. I'm never going to be okay with shooting someone or jeopardizing the life of someone who trusts me like that."

She spoke like someone that trusted her had died before - like they had died _because_ of her.

"Now, _that_, I can relate to."


End file.
